Every Street
by triggersaurus
Summary: Facilis descensus Averno – the descent to hell is easy.


  
Title: Every Street  
Author: Triggersaurus  
Genre: Alternative Universe/Mystery/Drama  
Rating: PG-13  
Spoilers: The Storm  
Summary: Alternative Universe, ignoring everything beyond The Storm. Doug goes to court over the case of Ricky Abbott, with major consequences.  
Author's Note: This fic is from an idea that has been in my mind for over a year now. That's a LONG time to be thinking about something, believe me! I only got around to writing it within the last few months, and it's a slow process because I really want to do the idea justice. Consequently, it's also a very big piece of work, and I've split it into parts. It's a mystery/drama that centres initially around the implications of Doug's actions before and during 'The Storm'. On ER, this issue was never cleaned up well enough for my liking. From the legal side of this story, a series of events develop and it becomes less and less centred around the ER although some of the other characters do appear. Please, if you're reading this note and you're not a Doug/Carol fan, consider reading the fic anyway, as it is not based on romance - further into the story, almost everything is fictional and created by myself, and I would truly appreciate knowing what people think. Thank you!  
Disclaimer: The characters from ER are not mine, they are owned by Constant C Productions, Warner Bros., Amblin Entertainment and the talented writers. Short word for Dr. Neal Baer too, as he shaped Doug Ross into the character I strive to write myself. The initial idea for this story came from listening to the songs "On Every Street" and "Private Investigations", and the lyrics that are reproduced at the end of this piece are property of Mark Knopfler and Dire Straits.  
  
  
Prologue  
  
The area was far from the image in his mind that he'd prayed would be a reality. The streets were dark. The buildings were dark and tall, those that were inhabited, if that's what you'd call it, were damp and echoed with lost voices. Those that weren't inhabited emanated the smell of fear through the cracks in walls and around the edges of the boards that were tacked over the windows. Billposters littered the boards, advertising new movies in a district that had no cinema, nightclubs in an area that provided all its own late night attractions. Whiskey bottles in brown paper bags littered the streets, and although humanity was not unseen it felt like a ghost town, struck by some late-nineties depression specific to these five blocks.  
  
He stood on the spot, the tarmac that was potholed and due for resurfacing and bordered by a kerbstone loose in its place, which long before had been marked with chalk. He crouched down and rubbed the place on the road where he could have sworn he'd seen flecks of white dust, and a tinge of deep red. But it was just the lights of the nearby bar - the neon sign flashing "Budweiser" inanely to no one in particular and reflecting off the wet street. The heavy Chicago rain that had soaked the area that morning and had continued to pound off the concrete wilderness all day and into the night, now beat down hard on Doug's back, shoulders and head as he stood up and tipped his head back. Looking up into the sky, he let the hard water smack on his closed eyelids and wash away the image of the seedy bar, the trash lying on the sidewalk, the black Mercedes. He hoped that the cold wind would blow away the sounds of screeching brakes in the distance, and the whispers of silence that haunted the region in his mind that would withhold the fear and sorrow for the remainder of his life.  
  
  
I  
  
"I swear by Apollo the physician, to hold my teacher in this art equal to my own parents, to consider his family as my own brothers and to teach them this art without payment. I will use my best judgement to help the sick and do no harm. I will not give fatal drugs to anyone - even if I am asked. Nor will I ever suggest any such thing. I will not give a woman any medication to cause abortion. I will be chaste and religious in my life and in my practice. I will not use the knife, even to remove the stones within. I will not abuse my authority to indulge in sexual contact. I will never divulge the secrets of my patients, regarding them as holy." Hippocratic Oath  
  
"The preservation of health is a duty. Few seem conscious that there is such a thing as physical morality." Herbert Spencer, Education  
~~~  
It was a move that he regretted for the rest of his life, but at the same time his principles dictated that what he had done was still right. Previously, he didn't think he really had an opinion about euthanasia - the suffering for the patient was bad, but on the other hand, as he had said once before, if it was your kid you'd bet on a miracle. So that you could cheat fate and stay with them for one more day. It was an opinion that hit home hard now, smacking into every red raw nerve. But back then, his mind wasn't in that frameset and all he wanted was to ease the pain of Ricky and his family. He didn't intend to take it as far as he did to begin with, but one thing lead to another as these things often do, and before he really knew what he'd done his young patient was cold in his bed and his relations with his colleagues and employers had frozen over. When he offered to resign, and tried in vain to persuade her to come with him to a better place where they could escape the inevitable backlash of his crime, he knew that's all it was - he was running away, tail between his legs. He was going to try and forget about it, pretend it had never happened and work on building a happy little family, with a big house and white picket fence. Except it wouldn't let him forget.   
  
  
"All rise"  
The courtroom echoed as the sparse crowd scraped their chairs back and stood up. Doug rose from behind the solid oak desk in front of him and smoothed down his suit jacket, crumpled from where he'd been unconsciously wringing his hands on his lap. Behind him sat Mark and Carol, with Donald Anspaugh and Neil Bernstein further to the left. Whilst they had all accepted that Doug had an aversion towards hospital policies and rulebooks, none of them had ever thought they'd seen him facing such serious charges in a court of law. And none of them wanted to be seeing it either. Despite the ructions from within, the staff of County Hospital now had to stand by this attending physician, as he stood against the world to face what he had done, what he had let happen.   
"His Honor Justice Henry Lomak presiding"  
The court official fell quiet again as the judge unceremoniously eased into his chair. He wasn't a small man and he filled the leather bound chair more than satisfactorily. A stack of papers lay on the bench before him and he leaned forward and took the top one, peering down at it over the top of his half moon glasses.  
"United States versus Ross?"  
"Yes, Your Honor"  
"Are counsel ready?"  
The state attorney leapt from his seat. "Yes, Your Honor, the prosecution is ready"  
Judge Lomak looked at this display of eagerness and turned his head ever so slowly to the table at which Doug and his singular defense lawyer sat. "Yes, Your Honor."  
The fact that Doug had resigned his position at the hospital before the charges were brought against him meant that he couldn't accept one of County's lawyers from Risk Management. Instead, he'd had a long and painful search for one, just him and the Yellow Pages. As a result of this and his sudden lack of income, he sat next to a man named Clifton DeVann who had had three attempts at the bar exam before passing and was now a recovering alcoholic. Thank god the man had at least one suit that made him look a bit more like a lawyer and less like a bum. This was all in stark comparison to the prosecuting tag team. It seemed like there weren't enough seats at that table for them all. The Armani and Hugo Boss radiated off them, and an IBM laptop decorated the otherwise sparse oak surface. Doug glanced at his own table, strewn with papers and legal pads covered in what he presumed was writing, although for all he knew it could have been one of his patients' scribblings. He was jerked out of this depressing line of thought by the booming voice of Dan Sullivan, the over-eager state attorney.  
"You Honor, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, today we will establish beyond any reasonable doubt that this man here, Dr. Douglas Ross, did commit reckless homicide on 16th February 1998, resulting in the death of Richard Adam Abbott, a patient at County General Hospital under treatment for Adrenal Leukodystrophy.  
This case will raise many moral questions and implications, and indeed, the defense will try to argue for the case of "mercy killing". But let it be noted that nowhere in the law of any country in the world is any form of killing sanctioned, whether it be out of cold blood or pity. Richard Abbott, although suffering from a fatal disease, could have lived for at least another day. And you may say, "Well, what's another day?" but to his family, one more day meant much more than can be put into words.  
With the aid of expert witnesses, we will prove that Dr. Ross acted unlawfully in assisting the death of this young boy, despite his image of a caring emergency room pediatrician."  
Counselor Sullivan dropped back into his seat, with a satisfied smirk playing on his lips, noticeable only to those few who were looking for it. Doug, carefully studying his shoes, shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He was so angry that he had no way of expressing it. Somehow this was worse than any other anger he had ever felt - any time Mark had pulled rank, the time Carol had run to the fireman, the countless kids who came in abused and wouldn't talk about it, even the contempt he felt for his father, it was all outweighed by his anger at what he was being accused of and the portrait that the slimy state lawyers were painting of him. The fact that he had to stand up and try to prove himself to these strangers in an unfamiliar setting. The fact that the democratic policy of innocence until proven guilty had been turned on its head and everyone was looking at him, eyes burning through him, saying 'we trusted you', and on top of everything else he knew he'd done the right thing but the goddamned law couldn't accept it.  
"...and we are confident that the prosecution will not be able to prove beyond reasonable doubt that the defendant is guilty."  
DeVann thumped back into his seat beside his client and looked at him.  
"You okay?"  
"Sure. Just fine."   
***********************************************************************  
DeVann, all too aware of his inferiority in the courtroom, leaned forward in his seat and grabbed a legal pad, scrawling something on it, completely missing the lines.  
God, did this guy even go to school, Doug thought to himself as he watched, trying to block out the nasal tones of one of the many prosecution attorneys who was treading the boards before him.   
"The prosecution calls Dr. Neil Bernstein"  
Doug chewed his lip hard as his former nemesis walked to the witness stand and was sworn in. Behind him, Mark massaged his temples with one hand.  
"Dr. Bernstein, will you state your position for the record please?"  
"I'm Head of Pediatrics at County General Hospital"  
"Thank you. I understand that up until late last year the defendant was answerable to you?"  
"Yes sir, Dr. Ross was on my staff as part of an ER pediatric fellowship."  
"And who funded this fellowship?"  
"The pediatric department"  
"But there was an agreement with the Emergency Room?"  
"Objection, Your Honor. This all seems mighty irrelevant."  
Doug, who had been mildly shocked that Clifton seemed to have good point, found the shock soon dispelled by the choice of language with which Clifton chose to make this statement. Nevertheless, Judge Lomak looked over the tops of his glasses down at the attorney.  
"Does this have a point, Counselor?"  
"Yes, Your Honor, if my esteemed colleague would just like to let me get to it."  
A smattering of laughter from the rest of the courtroom slapped DeVann back to his seat.  
"Dr. Bernstein, when you were paying for Dr. Ross's fellowship in the emergency department, would you say that he appreciated this?"  
"Objection! Surely this question is asking the witness to vouch for how Dr. Ross felt, and no-one can explain that but the defendant."  
The judge considered this for a moment. "Sustained. Counselor, please rephrase the question."  
"Dr. Bernstein, did you get on well with Dr. Ross while you were funding his fellowship in another department?"  
"No. Dr. Ross and I disagreed on a number of issues."  
"Could you give the jury an example of this?"  
"Sure. In 1995, Dr. Ross treated a boy aged about 9 in the ER because he had fallen and been knocked unconscious temporarily. Dr. Ross wanted to admit the boy for overnight observation, and I came down as a consult to establish if he needed to be admitted or not. I examined the boy and I was certain that, aside from a few bruises, he was fine and did not need to be admitted. Dr. Ross disagreed with my diagnosis and assigned the patient to my service an hour later without my permission."  
"And am I correct in saying this was just one of many examples?"  
"Yes sir. I considered not renewing his fellowship that year, and when it came up for renewal last year I was not going to renew it, because of our frequent disagreements and our funding was running low."  
"How did it come about that Dr. Ross left your service?"  
"He took the position of Pediatric ER Attending late last year which was funded through the emergency room and generous gifts."  
"Thank you, Doctor. Defense's witness."  
DeVann stopped scribbling and lurched from his seat, grabbing a sheaf of papers.   
"Dr....Bernstein. Despite your reservations about Dr. Ross, would you say he was…is...a good doctor?"  
"Uh huh."  
"Can you please state yes or no for the court record"  
"Yes. I wouldn't have a doctor on my service who wasn't good."  
Trust good ol' Neil, Doug thought sarcastically.  
"Have you ever seen him treat patients?"  
"Yes"  
"And would you say that he makes a good pediatrician?"  
"Objection, Your Honor," one of the Armanis leapt out of his chair, "repetition of the previous question."  
"Sustained."  
"Uh..." DeVann shuffled his papers, trying to find the one no doubt containing his next question. "How did you feel about the establishment of a pediatric emergency center at County Hospital?"  
"I had mixed views."  
"Why was that?"  
"Well, essentially it's a good idea, for the treatment of the kids and stuff, but practically it's much more difficult - you have to have different budgets, staff members who are devoted to that, plus funding for the creation of a separate area in an already cramped department."  
"But surely you have your patients best interests at heart, Doctor? After all, I do not recall part of the Hippocratic Oath stating, "I will put bureaucracy above the needs of my patients...""  
A small ripple of laughter ran around the courtroom, and the witness went a shade of plum.  
"Of course I have my patients best interests at heart, and I take offence that you suggest I don't. But with any position in modern hospitals there is a level of bureaucracy that cannot and will not be ignored."  
"So would you have said that my client would recognize this balance and make a good department head?"  
Dr. Bernstein grinned slightly. "If you're asking me if I thought Dr. Ross was good with the business side of patient care, then I would have to say most definitely not. He seems to want to get as far away from rules and bureaucracy as possible."  
"Maybe that's because he places a higher priority on looking after the children he cares for than you?"  
"OBJECTION!" The whole prosecution rose to their feet, Doug could almost see the steam coming from their ears. He nearly laughed out loud - it seemed like this lowlife wasn't as bad as he thought.  
"That's okay Your Honor, no further questions." DeVann returned to his seat, slightly flushed with the battle win.  
  
But before either of them could get too happy, another Armani stood up and called the next witness to the stand. Mark Greene sat down on the edge of the witness chair hesitantly, and swore to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help him God. At the same time, Doug hoped that if God was going to help anyone, it would be him.  
"Please state your name and position for the court record"  
"Dr. Mark Greene, Emergency Room Attending Physician."  
"Dr. Greene, your relationship with Dr. Ross goes beyond the ER?"  
"Yes. We're friends."  
"Close friends?"  
"I guess."  
"And the fact that you are Dr. Ross's superior at work doesn't affect the relationship at all?"  
Mark glanced at Doug, who looked blankly back at him. It wasn't exactly that he blamed Mark. They both recognised his problem with authority. But it was the fact that Mark stood for all the things that got in his way. And the fact that Mark wasn't afraid to be in that position...there was something about that which made Doug unconsciously jealous.  
"I...can't deny that it has put a strain on our friendship sometimes."  
The Armani guy nodded, as if trying to appear understanding.   
"Like the case of," he flicked his eyes down to glance at the single sheet he was holding, "Josh McNeil? I would imagine that caused a few, let's say, ructions between the two of you?"  
Mark cleared his throat, throwing another glance at Doug, who this time looked away.  
"Yeah."  
"Would you care to elaborate please, Dr. Greene?"  
"Doug...Dr. Ross performed a procedure called an ultra-rapid detoxification on one of his patients without my...the department's authorization. I had strong objections towards Dr. Ross, because he did the procedure without telling me, and because it was still in trial stages and the child could have been in danger."  
"Did you have any notion at all of what Dr. Ross was up to?"  
"Not in terms of the detox, no."  
"In any other terms?"  
Mark drew a breath. "Dr.Ross has treated the patient in question before, and he'd been quite forceful...the child was addicted to methadone as a result of his mothers own addiction during the pregnancy. Dr. Ross suspected that the mother was stealing her son's methadone for herself, and that's why he came into the ER, because he had withdrawal symptoms...the child was released into the care of the district family and child services, but was re-admitted for," he paused, "Dr. Ross admitted him for further testing, which we found out was a front for the detoxification."  
The attorney remained silent, well aware that it was his turn to speak but wanting to leave a pregnant pause for the last bit of information to sink in.  
"Has Dr. Ross ever become this emotionally involved with a patient before?"  
"Yes."  
"Often?"  
"I don't know...I wouldn't say often."  
"But it has happened before?"  
"Yes."  
"And has this...attachment to his work ever caused him to become aggressive or dangerous?"  
Doug raised his head to try and meet Mark's eyes again - he was running him through. But Mark avoided his glance.   
"Yes." This time it was almost a whisper.  
"He attacked a patient's father?" prodded the lawyer. If you're not careful, thought Doug, I'm gonna attack you very soon.  
"The man had kicked his 1 year old daughter out of a second floor window."  
"But Dr. Ross attacked the man?"  
"He punched him, once."  
"So Dr. Ross DID attack him?"  
"Yes."  
"Thank you Dr. Greene. Defense's witness."  
There was no easy way of getting out of all that, thought Doug. DeVann better have something pretty special lined up if he wanted an annulment now, and insulting Mark probably wouldn't hack it.  
"Dr. Greene, you've worked for some tie with Dr. Ross now, haven't you?"  
"Yes. I've worked with him for over 6 years now."  
"And during that time have you always been his superior?"  
"Yes."  
"But you've remained friends?"  
"Yes."  
"Do you believe Dr. Ross to be good at what he does?"  
"Of course. I think Dr. Ross is one of the best pediatricians I've ever worked with."  
"Why is that?"  
"He's great with the children, he treats them with the same respect that I would treat any adult, and he really knows his medicine. He takes pride in his specialty and he puts his patients needs first, and I think that's an outstanding quality that is rare in our profession."  
"So, while Dr. Ross has a slightly rocky history, you still believed in him?"  
"Yes. I still do."  
"Have you ever done anything to protect Dr. Ross?"  
Mark was silent, and frowned a little. "Sorry, can you repeat the question?"  
"Have you ever protected Dr. Ross in any way? Has he ever done something that maybe, some colleagues would disagree with, and you've covered that up?"  
"I, uh. Yes. Dr. Ross issued a trial drug - a new painkiller - to a patient who did not meet the demands of the trial. I found out, as did Dr. Weaver, but we didn't report anything."  
"And why was that?"  
"Because we didn't want any trouble, and because I suppose Doug was doing a good thing really - the patient was in a lot of pain."  
"Who was this patient, Doctor?"  
"Ricky Abbott"  
"And you're saying you morally agreed with Dr. Ross trying to ease the boy's pain?"  
This line of questioning intrigued the courtroom, and everyone sat forward a little bit.  
"Well, I…yes. I agreed. Morally."  
There was some murmuring from the back row, but a stern glance from Judge Lomak silenced it.  
"So would you say, Dr. Greene, that you agreed with what Dr. Ross did to ease the patient's pain further? Do you believe in euthanasia?"  
The murmuring returned and no glare would stop it this time. Only a short sharp burst of gavel on wood served to quieten the room.  
"I'm not sure."  
"Not sure?"  
Mark nodded, uncertainly. Doug knew that he didn't want to run the risk of getting into trouble himself.  
"You're not sure Dr. Greene? Well, in that case I will have to refresh you memory of a patient you treated back in 1995, who was brought to your ER in the final stages of terminal cancer. She pleaded with you for the duration of her stay to help her die. Do you remember that patient, Dr. Greene?"  
"Yes."   
Doug was suddenly concerned. Where was this guy going with this? What was he doing? He knew he was trying to defend him any possible way, but bringing his friends down with him? This was not what he wanted - it was bad enough that Mark had to take the stand. He watched, unable to do anything.  
"Can you remember what happened next?"  
"Yes."  
"Would you care to tell the jury?"  
"I issued her with morphine because she was in a great deal of pain."  
"And how much morphine did you give her, Doctor?"  
"I can't remember."  
"Well how about I remember for you, hmm? You gave your patient the maximum dosage, when she was already on 120 milligrams just to help her sleep. How much morphine can the human body handle before the systems start shutting down, Dr. Greene?"   
"About 250 milligrams"  
For those who had worked it out, small gasps littered the air.  
"And, now I've refreshed your memory, how much did you give Mrs. Holsten?"  
"Probably about 260 in total"  
As the noise level rose, the gavel spoke once again.  
"So, Dr. Greene. Would you say you were unsure about the issue of euthanasia? Do you, or do you not agree with mercy killing?"  
"I agree with it."  
"Thank you. No further questions."  
Judge Novak tapped his gavel. "Court is adjourned for the day. We will reconvene at 10am tomorrow. See you then."  
"All rise!"  
Everyone stood as the judge dislodged himself from the heavy chair and thumped down the steps and out of the room. The jury also rose and left via a different door, leaving the defendant, the prosecutor, their lawyers, and the few sparse spectators to chat among themselves. Doug declined to make small talk with Clifton and instead turned around and leant over the railing that separated him from his audience. He stretched out and touched Mark's sleeve. "Hey Mark. I didn't tell him to do that - he didn't even tell me he was going to, otherwise I would have stopped him, you know that, right? Right? God knows I've dug my own grave here, I'm not trying to take you down too, Mark. Mark? Are you even listening to me? Mark, I didn't want that to happen!"   
Mark, who previously had refused to look at him, turned to him.  
"I know you didn't, Doug. You didn't mean to get in any of this mess, but you have. And now I'll probably have to go in front of the hospital board, maybe even the AMA."  
"Mark…" Doug was a little lost for words - what could he say?   
Mark stood and walked into the aisle, meeting Carol there and they walked up to the large oaken doors and out into the foyer. Doug stood by the rails, shouting after him, but to no avail. He dropped his head, and turned back to where Clifton - the epitome of a cheap lawyer - was packing his plastic briefcase with the legal pads and all three pens he owned. He finished packing up and turned around to see Doug and grinned widely.   
"Hey, we're goin' pretty good dontcha think? That last bit, boy I thought I was pushing it but some nurse came up trumps at that there hospital of yours and now I think maybe that jury will think again before…hey, you okay? You wanna go get coffee or something, I know a neat little place down the block."  
"You know what, Clifton? No, I don't want coffee. And I don't want you to go around dumping malpractice suits on the few people I have left. Okay? Okay. I will see you tomorrow morning, unfortunately, and don't you try to pull any more of that crap, you got that?" On which note, he stormed past the dumbstruck lawyer and down the aisle.  
  
  
Next day, the first to be sworn in was Dr. Kerry Weaver. She avoided looking at Doug, and Doug avoided looking at her. If he did, he'd just get more angry and he wasn't sure if he could take much more of the rage that was already bubbling inside him, like a volcano about to blow. All he could hope was that he would manage to keep it down until he got home that night. He'd go to the park and take it all out in a basketball game, or play some racquetball…except, he suddenly realised, who would he play with? Strictly speaking, he was still "with" Carol, but she'd pushed him away over all this. Mark, well he was out of the question. They were the only two from the hospital associating with him right now, and they were barely doing that. From nowhere, he became conscious of the small circles that his life moved in. What now, after he'd seemingly ousted them from his life? Well, he thought, that may not be a problem. After all, at this rate, you can make some real good friends in prison.  
He was jolted out of his reverie by DeVann, who had scraped his chair back (and caused many to wince at the noise) and raised an objection.  
"Where is the prosecution going with this? It seems that we've been through all this before, Your Honour."  
Doug sat up a bit. He'd been away in his thoughts and wasn't sure what DeVann was referring to.  
Judge Lomak looked at the assistant US attorney. "Well?"  
"Your Honour, the prosecution is trying to build up an image of Dr. Ross's behaviour in the past."  
Oh great, thought Doug.   
"To be honest, Counsellor, I think I have a good idea of that already, and the jury are already asleep so I doubt that pressing Dr. Weaver much further will be beneficial to any of us. Did you have any other questions for the witness?"  
"Uh, no Your Honor." Good lord, thought Doug. The guy is actually blushing.  
"Defense?"  
"No, Your Honor"  
"In that case, witness is dismissed. Call your next witness please."  
Inwardly, Doug laughed. Kerry was going to be pissed that she didn't get her say in his downfall.   
"The prosecution calls Richard Abbott."  
Mr. Abbott rose from behind the desk he was sitting at with his team of lawyers. He walked dutifully up to the witness box and was sworn in. Despite the fact that Doug could never forgive him for what he was doing here, he could now see the father behind the hard exterior. This was just another parent who had lost his son. What was he trying to do with this court case? Win his son back? It came to Doug that maybe, just maybe, Mr. Abbott wasn't that far removed from himself. He couldn't imagine losing a child of his own, but losing someone near to him…well, he was getting better at recognising his behaviour now and he was pretty sure he'd either go out of his mind or go and beat up on someone. And that was more or less what Mr. Abbott was doing now - but maybe in a more controlled manner.   
"Mr. Abbott. Your son, Ricky, how old was he when he died?"  
"He was 10."  
"And he suffered from Adrenal Leukodystrophy?"  
"Yes."  
"As did his brother before him?"  
"Yes. His brother died of it a few years ago. Ricky was quite young when it happened."  
"And of course that means you'd been through the pain of losing a son once before."  
"Yes."  
"What would you give to have one more day, one more hour with your first son, Mr. Abbott?"  
"Everything. There are so many things that were left unsaid, and one more day would have meant the world to me."  
"Is this the way you feel about Ricky too?"  
"Of course. I never even got to say goodbye to him."  
"Could you tell us what happened on the day Ricky died?"  
"Objection! Your Honour, how could Mr. Abbott know the full details of that day when he was not present for it all?"  
"Sustained."  
"Mr. Abbott, can you tell us what you found when you went to see Ricky on the 16th February?"  
"I went up to Ricky's room and found him in his bed, strapped to all these machines, as he normally was, except there was a new one which I could see was administering something called Dilaudid. Joi…Ricky's mother…she was sitting by the bed looking at him, and he was all screwed up because of the pain he had been in. But he was really cold, and when I touched his cheek, Joi started crying and I knew he was dead. She started saying something about a doctor helping Ricky and that's when I called 911 to get him to the hospital. She told me on the way there that Dr. Ross, " he pointed at Doug, "had given her this machine and the code to put Ricky to sleep so he wouldn't feel any more pain.  
Doug very nearly lost it. He had to hang on to the last bit of self-control he had just to stay seated with his mouth shut. The guy was lying under oath! Now it was going to be his word against Mr. Abbott's, and no-one was ever going to believe him, thanks to the damage done by Bernstein, Mark and whatever Kerry had said before she'd been removed. Why wasn't his idiot lawyer doing something about it? This wasn't fair. Behind him, Carol shifted a little.  
"What happened when you arrived at the hospital?"  
He'll probably tell them I punched HIM now, Doug thought.  
"They tried to revive Ricky, but it seemed it was too late to save him," he took a deep breath, "and I found out that it was Dr. Ross that had treated my son, and, well, I hit him." He looked down at his feet. He might as well have cried for the jury - Doug was surprised his lawyers hadn't pep-talked him into it.  
"Why did you hit him, Mr Abbott?"  
"Because I was angry. I was grief stricken - I'd just lost my little boy and I needed to lash out. But also because he'd killed Ricky."  
"Objection," Thank god the guy was awake, "Witness is assuming the defendant's guilt."  
"Sustained - members of the jury, please disregard the last statement. Mr. Abbott, please be more careful"  
"Sorry, Your Honor."  
"Mr. Abbott. Your son's disease…Adrenal Leukodystrophy. This is a fatal disease that only affects boys and leads to inevitable death - no-one has ever lived beyond the age of 12, is that right?"  
"That's correct."  
"And this disease, it attacks the body systems so that the victims are unable to move or speak in the later stages?"  
"Yes. Ricky couldn't get around himself from the age of about 9…when he died he wasn't able to speak."  
"He couldn't speak??"  
"No."  
"So he was not able to communicate at all?"  
"Well, his mother says she could tell what he wanted, but I don't know how because Ricky couldn't move at all - he had no means of communication."  
"Mr. Abbott, do you think Ricky wanted to die?"  
"No. Ricky didn't want to die."  
"Objection, Your Honor! If Ricky couldn't communicate, then how can Mr Abbott be so sure that he didn't want to die??"  
Before His Honor could say anything, Counsellor Sullivan turned.  
"Well that would be exactly the question wouldn't it? After all, if Mr. Abbott can't be sure that his own flesh and blood wanted to die, how can some strange doctor know that he did want to die??"  
"Order in court!!" Judge Lomak was not happy. "Counsel, approach the bench."  
Oh boy, he totally walked into that, Doug despaired to himself. He rubbed an eye with the heel of his palm, head bent forward.   
After some angry murmuring, the two attorneys returned to their places - Clifton DeVann back to his chair chewing his pen frustratedly, and Sullivan in front of the witness box.  
"Thank you for your time, Mr. Abbott. No further questions." He strode back to his seat.  
DeVann rose from his chair once more.  
"Mr. Abbott, you said that your son's disease was ultimately fatal."  
"Yes, I did."  
"So, Ricky would have died eventually, irrespective of anything else?"  
"Well of course, I just said that didn't I?"  
DeVann put his hands up and raised his eyebrows, giving it a moment for dramatic emphasis.  
"How long did your son have left to live before he, um…before he died?"  
Oh God, good one Clifton, Doug berated.  
"You mean before, uh, " Mr. Abbott nodded in Doug's direction.  
"Before he…" Clifton stumbled, trying to find the right word.  
The crash of the gavel made more than a few people in the room jump.  
"Move on, Counsellor DeVann. You've dug yourself a hole that I don't want to sit around listening to you trying to get out of."  
"I, ahem…what was your son's life expectancy on the 16th February?"  
"He was expected to last maybe another day as far as we knew, probably more like hours."  
"Was he in much pain, as far as it was possible to tell?"  
"I guess so - he was on high doses of painkillers."  
"You guess so? Why do you say that, Mr. Abbott?"  
"I, uh. I don't know, it's a phrase…"  
"Don't you mean something more along the lines of 'I'm not really sure'?"  
Mr. Abbott looked confused and flicked a glance at his attorneys, who looked just as mystified as him.  
"Well, um, I…I'm sorry, I don't really understand the question."  
"Why wouldn't you have known how much pain your son may have been in?"  
"Because he couldn't communicate it?"  
"Aside from the obvious, please Mr. Abbott. What you really mean is that you didn't see that much of your son to really know him, did you?"  
"Objection!! Defense is trying to suggest witness was a bad father!"  
"I don't think he was implying that - were you implying that, Mr. DeVann?"  
"No, Your Honor. I was merely querying how much time he spent with his son."  
"Objection overruled."  
"How often did you see Ricky?"  
"I saw him every other weekend."  
"Out of choice?"  
"It was in the custody settlement after the divorce between Ricky's mother and myself."  
"Are you sure Mr. Abbott? It says here," Clifton waved a piece of official looking paper around, "that you had visiting rights for every weekend. Not every other weekend. Surely you would take these opportunities to see your son?"  
Mr. Abbott cleared his throat and said nothing.  
"Why didn't you visit your son, Richard? If he only had a few weeks left, why didn't you go and see him the weekend before he died?"  
"I…I was busy. I had a work arrangement."  
"Are you sure? Don't forget, you are under oath."  
"I'm sure."  
"Okay…but you didn't see Ricky very often, is that fair to say?"  
"Yes."  
"So, would it be possible to put it to you that maybe Dr. Ross here, with his full medical qualifications, who had spent the better part of 14 days treating your son - even taking time out of his social hours to visit Ricky at home - would know how he felt more than you did??"  
Mr. Abbott, red in the face through anger, said nothing but stared at the lawyer before him and at Doug behind the lawyer. His own team, looking at each other surreptitiously, decided that maybe they could object in a hope of getting away from the question.  
"Objection! Defense is talking in hypotheticals."  
"Counselor, need I point out your own line of prosecution earlier on today? Sit down and shut up."  
This guy is a real hard-ass, thought Doug. And I like it!  
"Mr. Abbott, will you please answer the question."  
The man remained silent, glowering in his witness box, dropping his head when he could face DeVann no longer. He still said nothing.  
"Mr. Abbott? Was there a chance Dr. Ross knew your sons final needs better than you did?"  
The silence was the heaviest that anyone in the courtroom had ever felt.  
"It is possible." The whisper came.  
"Thank you. No further questions, Your Honor."  
The room rumbled with scattered whispers.  
"The prosecution calls Dr. Douglas Ross."  
This did little to serve the noise in the room, and Judge Lomak was getting increasingly irritated. "ORDER!"  
The room fell quiet once again. Doug rose from his seat, and slipped round the table buttoning his jacket. The walk to the stand seemed to take forever, not just for him but for everyone watching. As he took the oath, he tried to steel himself for what was to come, it was possibly going to be the hardest thing he had ever done in his life. Somehow, he had to show these people that what he had done was right, despite the law. He just hoped that if he managed to keep his cool, DeVann wouldn't screw up.   
"Dr. Ross. You graduated medical school in 1988, correct?"  
"Yes."  
"Which school did you attend?"  
"University of Kentucky Medical School."  
"What do you remember about your graduation day?"  
"Well, I…there was a lot of drink…I don't remember too much." He grinned lopsidedly, and a few people in the room smirked.  
"I don't suppose then, in the haze that was your graduation, that you managed to remember that you took an oath that day?"  
Warning bells went off in Doug's head.  
"Drinking doesn't start till after you graduate in Kentucky. I remember the oath."  
"So you would be familiar with the promise, 'I will not give fatal drugs to anyone - even if I am asked, nor will I ever suggest any such thing'?"  
"I am."  
"Did you make that promise, Dr. Ross?"  
"Yes I did."  
"Can you say you've been faithful to that promise? Have you upheld the Hippocratic Oath, Doctor?"  
"In my interpretation, yes I have."  
"Your interpretation? I didn't know the Hippocratic Oath was open to interpretation!"  
"I think that you have to weigh these things up - and I believe that helping the sick to the best of my abilities is the most important part of being a doctor."  
"And how do you think Hippocrates himself would feel about this??"  
"I think he'd just be happy that a kid was put out of his pain and suffering."  
"Would he be happy that you abused your position to kill a child?"  
"OBJ-" Before Clifton could get any further, he was cut off by the eruption from the witness box.  
"Have you ever watched a kid dying?? Have you ever looked at a kid and known that he's looking at you to stop all the pain? Have you?? Do you know what it's like to be in the position where everyone expects you to have a cure, and you don't and you can't explain it? And the kid doesn't understand why it's happening to him, why he's in so much pain? And you're the only way that he can turn? Do you know that feels?? DO YOU KNOW HOW IT FEELS??" Doug gripped the railings at the front of the witness box, leaning over them, spitting at the lawyer and the injustice of everything. He ran out of words and stared at the lawyer, clenched and shaking from the anger. He didn't hear the judge bang and call loudly for order; he didn't hear the reprimand either, but loosened his grip on the rails and moved backwards. No doubt that made a fantastic impression on the jury, he thought. Smart move, Doug.   
"So are you saying that you were motivated to perhaps put yourself out of suffering here, Dr. Ross? After all, you obviously were going through some real pain, being in this position."  
Before Doug could leap forward again, a court official grabbed his arms from behind and held him back. After a couple of deep breaths, Doug shook himself free and sat down. He couldn't believe he'd snapped that quick, but then he could believe it as well. The most important thing was that he'd probably just totally destroyed what he had left of a chance. He'd just crashed on in without thinking of the consequences - again. Well, he rationalised, I guess there's not much I can do now but tell the honest goddamned truth, unlike some people. And maybe at least one jury member will believe me.  
"Ricky Abbott was experiencing more pain than most of us can ever imagine. Mrs. Abbott had watched her oldest son go through exactly the same thing, she knew he was in pain and how he was going to die in agony, and she felt hopeless. I know because I felt that way too and yet both of them, Ricky and Joi, they were looking to me for the answers. What would you do, just sit there and let him die a slow death? You think it's the simplest thing in the world to tell a parent that their child won't feel anything when they die, and you think that it's easy to stand by and watch a kid tied in knots from muscle failure, watch him drool 'cause he has no control over himself anymore, and to know that although he can't do anything physically, in his head he's begging you to make it stop." Doug took a breath, feeling his anger rising again. Before Sullivan could launch another missile at him, he collected his thoughts and spoke again.  
"I gave Mrs. Abbott the code to the PCA machine because she wanted Ricky to stop suffering. And…because I wanted him to stop suffering."  
Sullivan looked like he'd chewed a lemon - Doug had stolen his moment of glory by confessing earlier than he'd expected. But there was little to be lost, the guy had just practically awarded himself a life sentence now. The chewed lemon expression changed to one of smugness and he shot a look around the room quickly before smirking at the judge. "No further questions."  
Clifton, mouthing to himself at his desk, stood up with a notebook of frantically scrawled notes. Moving towards the witness box, he stopped and rushed back to the oak table to scribble something else on his legal pad before resuming his path to fate. He smiled at Doug. Unsure as to what exactly the smile meant, Doug consoled himself that it couldn't get any worse, so maybe the smile had been a reassuring one. Maybe, just maybe, Clifton had something up his sleeve. God knows what, but anything right now would be a blessing.  
"Dr. Ross, being a doctor means more to you than just preventing death, right?"  
"Yes."  
"What else would you consider your responsibility, within this job?"  
"Taking care of my patients…making sure they're not in pain, just looking out for them."  
"And would you say that putting patients out of their pain is generally accepted my all doctors as a key point of the job?"  
"Yeah…"  
"After earlier evidence, do you believe that the act of 'mercy killing' is committed more frequently than we all presume? Is it sanctioned within medicine, provided it isn't pulled into the outside world?"  
There was a heavy silence as Doug looked past DeVann at Mark. Mark looked back, unreadable expression in his eyes, mouth set in a hard line. Shifting his gaze to DeVann, Doug tried to give him a warning glare, but DeVann was too dumb to notice, smiling eagerly back like a child with a secret he wanted to share.  
"Dr. Ross?" Judge Lomak pressed for a response.  
"I think…maybe it happens more than any of us want to think. But it isn't for the wrong reasons. I know that my colleagues at least can say that they would never consider it unless under pressure from family or the patient themselves. And they wouldn't do it, I wouldn't do it unless there was no other option for treatment."  
"But that's a yes?"  
"Uh huh. I mean, yeah."  
"Okay…" some more scribbled notes. Trust Clifton not to prepare. Don't rule him out yet, Doug chastised himself. "Could you lead us through the exact events leading up to Ricky Abbott's death?"  
"Yes. Um. The day before Ricky died, he came into the emergency room at County, because he was in so much pain. The genetics department wanted to admit him to their service, but Mrs. Abbott wanted her son to be at home when he died - it was clear he would die within the next couple of days. So…" he stopped to clear his throat, "I said I'd talk to Dr. Julian, who works in Genetics and see if we could get Ricky a patient-controlled analgesia machine to take home. So he wouldn't be in so much pain." At this point, Doug's eyes flicked to Carol, sitting on the bench behind the railings with Mark. She looked at him, impassive. He wasn't going to let her get into trouble the way Mark had. A sudden feeling of hopelessness engulfed him and for a moment he thought he should just give up there and then. But a fighting instinct kicked back in and he carried on, meeting Carol's eyes. "When we got the PCA machine, I got hold of some Dilaudid, which is a strong painkiller, and gave it to Joi to take home with the machine. Later on, I spoke to Nurse Hathaway, who had received a call from, uh, Mrs. Abbott, because she was having some trouble with the machine. I wasn't too crazy about going to help her out, I thought she should have some time with her son, but I went to help anyway. I showed her how to administer the medication, and did the first round for her. We ended up staying the night because I didn't want her to get into any more difficulty. I gave Ricky another dose in the morning at about 7am, when Mrs. Abbott said to me that, ahem. She said she didn't want Ricky to go through any more pain and she didn't think she could take it either. She wanted me to end Ricky's pain, she said. But I was late for work, and I didn't know what to do about it. So I gave Joi the over-ride code to the PCA."  
The words hung on the air, as breath formed on the windows and the impact of putting these actions into words filtered through the minds in the courtroom. Before, it had just seemed like a chain of events that were spun into a downward spiral, and if no one put it all together it wouldn't seem so bad. If no one said it out loud then maybe it never happened. But now it was there - the spiral and sprung into place and the big picture was clear, right in front of them. Doug had sanctioned the death of a little boy, another human being and he admitted it. He had been a step away from murder, and although the circumstances were extenuating, it would not bring that life back.   
"Dr. Ross, if we can just back up a bit. You said you acquired the PCA machine. Where did you get it from?"  
"I got it from the ER's Day Clinic."  
"Not from the ER itself?"  
"Uh, no."  
"Why not?"  
"Because the attending in charge wouldn't sign one out."  
"Because…?"  
Doug shifted a little in his seat, now avoiding looking at his audience.  
"Because Ricky was not on the ER service, he was on Genetics."  
"So why did you get one from the clinic? Why didn't you go to genetics??"  
Before Doug could answer, the large face of the judge was leaning over into the face of Clifton DeVann. "Counselor DeVann, do you intend to defend your client at ALL?"  
Startled, DeVann jumped, then turned around to face the judge.  
"I, yes I do, Your Honour, this is background to my defence…"  
"It's a background that could get your client in more trouble than he already is, Counselor. Watch your tread."  
"Yes, Your Honor."  
There was a brief silence while Clifton failed to recognise he could continue, albeit with a caution. Only upon seeing the raised eyebrows of the judge did he realise. Clearing his throat, he started up again.  
"Dr. Ross, you signed the PCA machine from the ER's Clinic rather than Genetics because they wouldn't let you have one, am I right?"  
"Yes."  
"So, really you shouldn't have had a PCA at all, should you?"  
"Not really, no."  
"But wait a minute. Was it YOU who signed it out of the clinic?"  
"I, uh, sorry?" Doug sensed a moment of panic. What was he implying and why wasn't he doing what the judge asked for Christ's sake??   
"Did you sign out the PCA machine, or did someone else, Dr. Ross?"  
Doug swallowed.  
"Someone else did."  
"Who would that be, Doctor?"  
"Someone who worked for the clinic."  
"I'm sorry, I need a name."  
"Carol Hathaway."  
The impassive look on Carol's face slipped oh so slightly into one of disbelief, shame and despair, and yet all the emotions flicked over her face in a matter of seconds. Only Doug noticed it. He knew her face so well, he couldn't miss it and it felt like something inside him had stamped on his gut.  
"So, Nurse Hathaway stole the PCA machine from the clinic and then it was used to kill a child."  
"OBJECTION!" The crowd of lawyers didn't need to say anything, as Judge Lomak merely gave DeVann a death stare and ordered the court reporter and jury to ignore the last question.  
"You were not responsible for the fact that the PCA machine was present, am I correct Dr. Ross?"  
"No. I told Joi, Mrs. Abbott that I would get one for her son. I was responsible for it."  
"But you didn't sign it out, Dr. Ross! In the paperwork, Nurse Hathaway had complete responsibility for what the machine was used for! NOT you!"  
Doug pleaded at Clifton with his eyes. Don't do this, please don't do this, you sorry son of a bitch. Don't get her into trouble. I've done enough damage by myself, I don't need you helping me. He looked at Carol, but she was staring at her lap, whispering to Mark, who was studying her and murmuring back. As he watched, Mark took one of her hands in his own.   
"Further more, Dr. Ross, you said you didn't want to visit the Abbott's home the night before Ricky died. Tell me again why you decided you would?"  
"Because I wanted to help Joi with the PCA and I didn't want Ricky to hurt."  
"Are you sure? This wouldn't have anything to do with the fact that when Nurse Hathaway took the phone call from Mrs. Abbott, she agreed to stopping by with you, but not telling you in advance?"  
"No. It doesn't have anything to do with that."  
Clifton suddenly changed tack.  
"You and Nurse Hathaway are in a romantic relationship, aren't you?"  
Feeling like his mind was swinging round a corner like a NASCAR racer, he nodded.  
"Yes."  
"And knowing that your girlfriend, Nurse Hathaway, wouldn't be with you that night because she was spending it with a dying little boy was NOT the thing to change your mind."  
Doug stared hard at his lawyer. Why, out of all the other scumbag lawyers, did he have to pick this guy? He sat in stony silence, staring him out and trying to think of an answer that wouldn't implicate Carol even more and yet still be the truth. Unfortunately, as he sat there, it wasn't until too late that he realised what his silence meant to everyone in that courtroom.  
"It was a factor. But I'd been treating Ricky for two weeks. Even if Nurse Hathaway hadn't been there, I might have gone anyway."  
"Might? But surely that suggests that there's a possibility you wouldn't have gone at all, had Nurse Hathaway not cajoled you. If that is true, then Ricky Abbott might have died of natural causes. Maybe we should be trying Ms. Hathaway too?"  
"No. NO, dammit. Stop trying to drag everyone else into this, asshole!! I gave Joi the code, Not Carol, Mark, or anyone else! Why can't you just accept that and try and get me the most lenient sentence possible instead of implicating everyone I care about?" Judge Lomak bashed his gavel so hard the top nearly came off.   
"Dr. Ross!! If I have one more outburst from you, you will not only be sentenced for reckless homicide, but I will tack on more time for being in contempt! You chose your lawyer, now sit down and shut UP!"   
"I have no further questions, Your Honor."  
"Court will recess for fifteen minutes. Reconvene at…" he looked at his watch, then squinted at the clock on the wall, "11.35am." He shuffled out of the room as Doug waited for the signal to return to his place behind the desk. But when he got the word that he could step down, instead of heading back to his seat, he walked out of the door to his left. He needed some fresh air. Inside the courtroom the air was stagnant, heavy with humidity and whispered words, condensation and pain. Bruised souls and egos. Out here, it was a virtual escape where he could pretend for the meantime that none of this was happening. Standing, looking up at the curved dome of the courthouse ceiling, he wondered whether to go back or to just stay here, where he world remained complete instead of the fragments it lay in inside. But the words Carol had yelled at him that night in the snow rang though his brain like a fire alarm. He always ran from everything. The buck stops here. Glancing at his watch, he took one last look up at the dome, painted to look like a historic feat of architecture, not a 1970's shell, and searched for the men's bathroom.   
  
-----------------  
Inside the court, DeVann sat at his desk, murmuring some more and filling more pages with what seemed to be random assortments of letters, arranged in patterns on the paper. His ballpoint was running out, and he stopped intermittently to shake it violently, hoping to encourage more ink into the cartridge, as if by magic. Doug stood by the heavy doorframe and watched the series of actions. Write for thirty seconds. Stop to shake pen. Wipe mouth with back of hand. Say something incomprehensible. Start writing again. The cycle kept repeating. He hated the shambolic figure, who couldn't even get a pen to work. But he had made the selection and now he had to pay for it. Knowing little about law, he tried to estimate how long he would be sent own for. Homicide charges almost always got the defendant life, or so he picked up from gossip around the admit desk. Reckless homicide, well that hardly made it sound any better, so he'd probably lose parole for that. His license was going too, so he could never even wimp out and try to work in the prison medical unit. Standing there, contemplating his grim future, his mind turned to what he might have done to the future of others. He knew Carol would be the first witness in his defence. How could DeVann possibly afford to ignore her as a get-out clause now? And he had no power to stop it. He stood in that position by the door for the rest of the remaining time he had, until a bell sounded and the judge returned. Doug made his way back to his seat, with the classic 'Let's Face The Music And Dance' ironically playing over and over in his mind, taunting him.   
"Prosecution. Have you any further witnesses?"  
"No, Your Honour."  
Judge Lomak grunted and marked something down on a piece of paper in front of him. Still looking at the paper, he said, "Defence? Call your first witness."  
DeVann stood in a strange, half-couched type way, hovering over his chair. "Defence calls Miss Carol Hathaway."  
"HATHAWAY!" The court marshal boomed out of the doors. Seconds later, Carol crossed the courtroom, brushing strands of hair behind one ear as she stepped up and took the vows. Settling in her seat, she refused to look at anyone other than the lawyer in front of her, and if not that then the judge's podium next to her.  
"State your name and position for the record, please."  
"Carol Hathaway, R.N., Nurse Manager at County General ER."  
"You have been working with Dr. Ross for some time now, correct?"  
"Yes. About ten years."  
"In the same department?"  
"Yes."  
"You'd say Dr. Ross was a good doctor, wouldn't you?"  
"Yes."  
"And are you a good nurse, Miss Hathaway?"  
"I try my best."  
"You established a walk-in clinic at the County Emergency Room, right?"  
"Yes."  
"Tell us a bit about it."  
"It's a clinic that runs once a week, where people who want flu shots, check-ups or advice can come without taking up time that could be used to treat more critical patients."  
"Good...good," DeVann nodded, as if he had been testing her and she'd just given a right answer. "The clinic was funded by...?"  
"The hospital and generous gifts from the Carter Foundation."  
"I see...so was it the gifts or the hospital that provided a PCA machine?"  
"The hospital provided it."  
Changing tack, DeVann asked, "On February 15th, when you took a call from Joi Abbott, did you tell her that you would go and see her and Ricky at home?"  
"Yes."  
"Did you tell her that Dr. Ross would come and see them at home?"  
"Yes I did."  
"Why exactly was Mrs. Abbott calling you?"  
"She called the ER because Ricky was in a lot of pain and she couldn't understand how to work the PCA. She needed someone to show her."  
"So you asked Dr. Ross to go with you to the Abbott home."  
"Yes."  
"You knew how to work the PCA, didn't you?"  
"Yes."  
"So why did you need Dr. Ross to come?"  
"I...he was Ricky's doctor and he had explained to Joi how to use it previously. I didn't feel that, as a nurse, it was my place to use the machine."  
"But surely, if that is the case, why did the hospital provide you with one for the clinic you ran, without the aid of doctors? So let me ask you again. Why did you need Dr. Ross to come with you to the Abbott's house that night, particularly when he had already stated that he didn't want to go?"  
For the first time on the stand, Carol glanced at Doug. He met her eyes and read beyond the anger and despair to a part in her soul that was calling for help, and only he could ever save her. In an instant he hated himself for bringing her so much pain, from when they started dating all those years ago, when he dumped her to pursue other women, when he turned up at her engagement party, when he made fun of her old boyfriend, when he became angry with her for kissing another man when he had been running around with multiple women only a year before. And now this.   
"Miss Hathaway, please answer the question."  
"I thought that, as Ricky's doctor, he should be there too. And...I...am in a long-term relationship with Dr. Ross. I wanted his moral support."  
"So you forced him to go with you?"  
"No, I didn't. I told him that Joi was having trouble with the PCA and he said he didn't want to go, so I said I was going to go anyway and that I'd see him tomorrow."  
"So you didn't force him to go with you...but perhaps there was a slight guilt trip going on?"  
"Objection!" boomed the prosecution, before Carol had a chance to even contemplate answering.  
"Members of the jury, please ignore that last question. Counsellor..."  
DeVann nodded and started again.  
"Because of your relationship with Dr. Ross, would you say that you placed any...personal emphasis on him joining you that night?"  
"No..."  
"But you said to him that you wouldn't see him that night - am I correct in saying you live together?"  
"We were, yes."  
"So by saying that you would be away that night, you implied that you wouldn't come home."  
"Yes. Because I was going to be at the Abbott's house."  
"And how do you think that would make Dr. Ross feel, if he knew you were going to be caring for one of his patients all night while he sat home alone, doing nothing?"  
"Objection, speculation on the defendant's feelings, Your Honor."  
"Sustained. Rephrase the question, Counsellor."   
"How would you have felt if you had been in Dr. Ross's position, Miss Hathaway?"  
"I would have felt guilty, and lonely."  
"Thank you. Prosecution's witness."  
The lawyer strode back to his seat next to Doug, who was concentrating hard on the table in front of him, rubbing his chin with one hand.   
"You've known and worked with Dr. Ross for ten years, Miss Hathaway?"  
"Yes."  
"Has he ever done anything like this before?"  
"No...nothing this serious."  
"But you can confirm the evidence of the other witnesses that his behaviour at time has been somewhat reckless?"  
"Yes."  
"Nurse Hathaway, were you aware that Dr. Ross had given Mrs. Abbott the override code to the PCA machine?"  
"No, not until Ricky was brought into the ER in full arrest."  
"So you weren't there when the lethal dosage was administered?"  
"No."  
DeVann suddenly had a scrawling attack and looked just about ready to burst. Excitedly, he leant over and whispered in Doug's ear.  
"No-one else was there but you and Joi, right? If we can get her to avoid the admission that you gave her the code, then we have no evidence to say you did it!"  
Doug gazed at the man sitting beside him in amazement and wonder. It was like this guy was on some sort of roller coaster, where at the top was a brilliant idea, and at the dip was a huge, gaping black hole of stupidity.  
"I already said I did it, Clifton. And how exactly would you get Joi to lie on the stand?"  
"Oh." That idea crushed, he returned to listening to the testimony. But he was too late, and had missed the tail end of it.  
"Thank you, Miss Hathaway, you may step down now."  
"Thank you." She almost whispered it back to the judge, and descended from the raised platform on which the witness box sat. Walking forcefully, with her head held high, she left the room, refusing to meet anyone's looks. Outside, Doug was pretty sure Mark was waiting for her and that they would return shortly. Maybe they were holding a 'Losing Your Medical License' party, and he hadn't been invited.   
  
As his lawyer called for Joi Abbott to give her evidence, Doug scanned the list of witnesses speaking, supposedly, in favour of him. Unable to decipher the handwriting initially, he was disappointed to see that Clifton had only managed three. Three whole people. And he was already on the second. Who was the third? The mess of cursive letters that all ran into each other like some sort of alphabetic pile up on the legal pad betrayed no clue as to who it was going to be, until he saw another piece of paper entitled 'Dr. Donald Anspaugh', and a list of questions written below it. Anspaugh? He was testifying for him? What was that about??  
"Mrs. Abbott, when you called the County General Emergency Room on February 15th, what exactly was the purpose of your call?"  
Joi looked decidedly nervous. She had seemed more peaceful after Ricky had died but now she was on edge, as if tentatively hanging on the brink of something.  
"Ricky was in a lot of pain, and I couldn't get the machine to work. I wanted someone to show me how to work it again."  
"Who did you have in mind for this task?"  
"Well, Dr. Ross. He had been treating Ricky, and he'd given us the PCA machine, so I thought maybe he could help."  
"But you didn't mind when Nurse Hathaway came without Dr. Ross?"  
"No. She'd treated Ricky, and me, before too. I was just happy that someone could help me make Ricky feel better."  
"So when Dr. Ross did turn up, what did you think?"  
"I...I don't really recall. I was sitting with Ricky. I think I was glad, because, well, no offence to Nurse Hathaway, but he was a doctor and I thought maybe he could help Ricky some more..."  
"When you say, 'help Ricky some more', what exactly are you referring to, Mrs. Abbott?"  
"In the morning," Joi looked at Doug, and her eyes were wet, "in the morning I asked Dr. Ross if he could help Ricky to stop feeling anymore pain."  
There was a ripple of conversation around the courtroom.  
"So, you asked Dr. Ross, a fine ER pediatrician, to practice euthanasia on your little boy." DeVann boomed; he'd obviously seen one too many courtroom drama films.  
Joi let a tear slide down her cheek as she gazed at Doug, answering the question, "Yes."  
"Can you tell us what happened after you asked him?"  
"I...he didn't say anything, and he went downstairs. I thought he had refused my request, and I started crying when I heard the front door close, but then he came back up to us. He wrote down four numbers on a piece of paper and told me that it was the over-ride code for the machine so I could give Ricky as much painkiller as he needed. He asked me if I was sure I wanted to do this and I told him I was, I didn't want to watch my son in pain anymore." More tears rolled down her face, leaving tracks and trails, showing the pattern of her grief for her son and for the career of the doctor who had listened to her and cared.  
"Dr. Ross gave you these numbers, and then what did you do?"  
"He went to work and I put the code in the machine and gave Ricky as much medicine as I could...I told him," she paused to wipe her nose with a Kleenex, "that he wouldn't hurt anymore, and that I loved him. Then he stopped breathing and I panicked so I called 911..."  
"And that's when Ricky's father arrived and you went to the County Emergency Room, right?"  
"Yes."  
"So, just recapping on what you have said..."  
"Objection!! Summarisation should be kept until closing!"  
"Sustained."  
Flustered, DeVann shuffled his paper pile, dropping one but failing to notice.  
"No further questions."  
He returned to his seat, leaving his page of notes on the floor. The assistant district attorney took advantage of this and picked it up, handing it back to his incompetent opposition. Several members of the audience laughed behind their hands, and Clifton even had the dignity to blush. But after handing back the paper, the lawyer returned to his seat and settled down comfortably.  
"The prosecution has no questions, Your Honor."  
"What?!" whispered Clifton, half to himself and half to Doug. "Oh man, oh man. I haven't prepared for the next witness...oh boy..."  
"Would the defence call their next witness sometime today please?"  
"Uh, Your Honor, the defence would like to request a ten minute recess."  
The big judge considered this, eventually looking at his watch and saying, "I could do with a snack. Court will reconvene in ten minutes."  
  
For the duration of the recess, Doug sat next to his lawyer and watched him scribble hastily thought up questions under Anspaugh's name. This was ridiculous he knew, but he had gone past the point of no return a long time ago. Turning around, he noticed that Carol and Mark weren't anywhere to be seen - had they ever returned after Carol's testimony, or were they just taking advantage of the break? Turning back to face front again, he watched Judge Lomak ascend the steps to his platform and position high above everyone. He watched Dr. Donald Anspaugh walk to his place on the witness stand. He watched DeVann rise from his seat and take his place in front of his witness, but all he heard was the sound of Carol's breathing behind him. Did she want him to go to jail? Surely that's what she should want, for betraying her more than anything else. Or did she want him to stay free, so the future charges against her would be lessened? He loved her with all his heart, like he had never loved anyone before, but he couldn't foresee a future for their relationship after what he had done. They were already living apart - what hope did they ever have of remaining a couple if he was locked away? Desperately clawing at the edges of the depression pit, he shifted his attention to try and concentrate on what Anspaugh was saying, with the thought ever present in his mind - would these be his last few hours of freedom?  
"I am not condoning Dr. Ross' behaviour, but I believe that he has always had his patients' best interests at heart."  
"So is his supposed crime forgivable?"  
"Objection! That is for the jury to decide, surely?!"  
"Hypothetically I'm talking, Your Honour."  
"Objection over-ruled."  
"In my eyes I've forgiven Dr. Ross for a lot of things, and if it was up to me I would forgive him for this as well. But he would have to be watched more carefully in future, his patients would have to be monitored."  
"Ummm..." DeVann stumbled over his next question. He'd lost a sheet of paper. Doug saw it, on the floor by the chair next to him. And although he wanted to help, something in him gave up and he didn't mention it as he watched his attorney flounder by the platform.   
"Uh. The defence rests, Your Honor."  
As soon as he had said it, he turned around and saw the paper on the floor. Turning back to the judge to ask if he could continue, he was beaten by the heavy man to it.   
"No, Counsellor, you know the rules. You've closed your case, now sit back down. I'm not sure I've seen such a shambolic attempt at practicing law ever before. Does the prosecution have any further questions?"  
"No, Your Honor, we believe that Dr. Anspaugh has no further evidence useful to ourselves."  
"Okay. Witness dismissed. We'll break for lunch and reconvene at 2pm." He banged his gavel and lurched off once again.   
Grateful for the break, Doug left the courthouse altogether. He wasn't meant to, and he knew it. But he needed the air and a change of scenery albeit brief. He stood on the street outside the building, trying to ignore the cold breeze that blew around him, little sharp daggers of icy air poking and prodding and demanding an answer. Standing there, he knew his future was not in Chicago, not in the cold, windy city. He studied his feet, and looked up as a truck roared past. Starting a slow walk to the nearest food vendor, he heard steps behind him and felt Mark fall into step beside him.  
"Hey."  
"Hey."   
After some moments of silence, their slow footsteps speaking for them, Mark said to the air in front of him, "I just wanted to say good luck for the verdict."  
"Huh. Yeah, right." Doug stopped at the burger bar and took some notes out of his pocket.  
"No, Doug. You don't understand, none of us want you to go. We didn't want this to happen."  
"It's not your problem, Mark. I'm going, whatever the verdict is, you know that."  
"Leaving town?"  
"Yes."  
He ordered a plain burger, handed over his change and started the walk back to the courthouse. Mark followed him, almost running in a half-gait position, trying to get him to stop and listen.  
"Are you sure you really want to leave Chicago, Doug?"  
"What would I do here, Mark? Sit around, get fat and crazy, live of my unemployment cheques? Wind up in the ER in thirty years time with bedsores because I'm too big to get out of the bed, heart failure because I can't afford proper food, lacerations where I've been cutting myself so that I can die and never have to deal with another day? I don't think so. Prison in Florida or Carolina, somewhere where the sun shines and I can get a good view from my cell window."  
Unable to say anything in response, Mark studied Doug's face. The anger and pain he recognised were all present but there was a hint of something else. A desperation, a fear maybe, in his eyes. Fury that wasn't impenetrable, so solid was its core, lined his face and the lines around his eyes that used to come from laughing were there as a mark of anguish. His friend was sinking, and he didn't want to swim.  
------------------------  
  
Back in the courtroom, all that awaited Doug were closing speeches and a verdict. The jury, unreadable in their expressions and body language, had resumed their places and looked neutrally at each other or around the courtroom at the architecture. Doug sat down, having thrown most of his meal into a trashcan outside. Clifton sat beside him, silent for once and still. No notes lay before him, no legal pad paper and no pen. He looked calm and contained, and he nodded hello to Doug when he returned. At the prosecution table, the legal team tapped away at laptops, or conversed quietly with their client. Noticing movement from the corner of his eye, behind the prosecution table, Doug saw Joi looking at him. Mouthing, "Sorry," with damp eyes, she looked away again at her ex-husband. He nodded in a gesture to show he didn't hold any grudge against her, and faced the front again as His Honor took his place once more, ready for the closing speeches of the case.  
  
"Your Honor, ladies and gentlemen of the jury. During these past few days, you have heard evidence against a doctor who helped his patient to die. This controversial case, thankfully free from media hype, has many twists to it, and many moral judgements have been made. The denfence has tried to point out that Dr. Ross is not to blame for his actions, and that instead the responsibility for the crime lies with other people. The defence has also clearly stated again and again for our tired ears that Dr. Ross is a good doctor. What we must question is the meaning of 'good'. Does killing another human being qualify him as 'good'? His actions in the past have been reckless - this terrible, mindless act was not the first time Dr. Ross has been known to step out of line. His superiors and colleagues have testified to that. Indeed, it seems that while his actions may be impulsive, they are not entirely unplanned. Dr. Ross went to some lengths to obtain the PCA machine used to kill Ricky Abbott, and the medication as well. He spent the night at the Abbott household, possibly considering his options with this little boy. The next morning, he got up and issued the fatal code to the machine so that the boy's mother was able to give him a lethal overdose. No matter how you look at this case, it cannot be denied that Dr. Ross was the key to the door of death for a nine-year-old boy. And at this moment in time, such homicide is illegal in every country on Earth. Not one state in the whole world accepts euthanasia, and least of all the United States of America. I ask you to remember that when you are making your decision, ladies and gentlemen. Not one."  
  
"The prosecution has tried incessantly to prove to you over the last few days, ladies and gentlemen, that my client is guilty of reckless homicide. I have begged and pleaded to differ. How can we convict one man for the death of a little boy when it is clear from our evidence that so many are to blame? May I remind you of Nurse Hathaway. Dr. Ross's partner in life and in crime. Had it not been for her guilt trip, Dr. Ross may never have gone to that house that night. Had it not been for the machine she stole from the hospital, then there would have been no over-ride code to give to anyone. I draw your attention to Mrs. Abbott too. The woman who actually entered the code and issued enough painkiller to kill her son in 15 minutes, with full knowledge and understanding of her actions. And yet while she killed Ricky, who had suffered for the duration of his life with a crippling disease, she told him she loved him. Her actions were for the benefit of her child. Yes, benefit. We need only to return to testimony given by an ER attending doctor to know that such measures are not rare in medicine. It may happen more than we think. If we are not in that position, how can we possibly decide if it is right or wrong? Ladies and gentlemen, I ask you to refer to all the evidence given when you make your choice. This is a man who has always put his patients' best interests at heart. Sure, sometimes he goes against the book, but it has never been for the wrong reasons. He cares about his patients, and he cared about Ricky Abbott. He acted out of concern and thought for what Ricky was going through, and if I was a kid, I know I'd want him as my doctor."  
  
Sitting outside the courtroom on the cold marble steps, Doug cleared his mind and watched people walk past. Some were faces he recognised from the courtroom, people who had come to watch. Ricky's grandparents sat on a bench nearby, whispering between themselves. Lawyers from this case and others were dotted around, some laughing by a water cooler. A cleaner stood in the corner, sweeping the same patch of floor over and over. Doug watched the sweeping action of the mop head swing back, flick a few drops of water onto the shining surface, then swing down through a perfect arc, slapping the floor at exactly halfway, brushing a puddle of water forwards, like a car tyre screaming through rainwater. It launched into the air again, pausing briefly at the top of the sweep and flinging more droplets through the air and onto the cream coloured wall, before beginning the descent once more. He stayed transfixed for as long as he could, trying not to think about juries, verdicts, cell walls. Out of a door to his left, another courtroom emptied of the few people inside. What looked like a family, with a teenage boy in a suit, his two parents and a younger sister came out, the father talking to his son quietly as they looked towards a smaller family of a mom and her son, and a toddler who was running after a dropped toy. 'Kids probably got in a fight', Doug thought. Trouble was now you couldn't have a fight without being sued for assault - no more settling arguments with fists in playgrounds. Maybe that's where lawyers recruited their clients from now - he could just picture bespectacled, nerdy attorneys standing around children's playgrounds, waiting for a fight to break out before issuing small business cards, and claims of thousands of dollars compensation.   
The toddler, eagerly chasing his toy, tripped over the step in front of Doug, snapping him out of his reverie. Doug leant forward, helping the child up, before he ran off again.   
"Thanks, " said the mother, who grabbed her child by the arm and yanked it in the direction of the door. Doug watched them go. He checked his watch. He'd been sitting there for about an hour now, and his legs were cramping. Getting up, he wandered back towards the courtroom with his hands in his pockets. Rain had started to fall outside, he noticed though the window. Inside the courtroom, a couple of people had remained in their seats, hopeful of a quick verdict. He noticed one of the prosecution team had the nerve to be playing solitaire on his laptop. Clifton was nowhere to be seen. Mark was gone too, but Doug could have sworn he'd just seen Carol sitting in her seat behind his table...  
"Doug. Just wishing you the best for the verdict. You know, we can't take you back at County, but if the verdict is good I can give you my recommendation."  
"Thanks, Donald. I'm keeping my fingers crossed."  
"We all are."   
Doug forced a smile and moved past him, eager to see if it was Carol he had seen. Yes, it was. She was sat by herself, looking down at her lap. He walked up behind her, trying to see if she was okay. It reminded him of her almost-wedding to John Taglieri years ago, when he had found her in the church crying by herself. Then he could be of some comfort to her. Now it was a different story.  
"Carol."  
She nodded at him as he sat down beside her. Leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees he could see that she wasn't crying. Her eyes were dry. But they were still sad. He didn't know what to say. Previously, he'd always hit on the right joke, or the right few words to make her smile. But he couldn't do that anymore, and especially not today. He looked down at his own feet, a view he had favoured today over others. And although he didn't say anything and neither did she, he could sense a lack of anger in the air. At that moment, the sudden noise of feet on the wood floor pulled his head up and he watched the jury file into their positions. He looked at the judge. This was it. Had it been particularly quick? Was that a good or bad sign? No-one was going to help him now. Preparing to return to his seat, he shifted his weight forward, but the sudden feel of flesh on flesh stopped him.   
"Good luck," Carol said, looking into his eyes as she held onto his hand tightly. He gripped hers back as tight as he could, then let go to resume his place at the defendant's table.  
  
"Member of the jury, have you reached a verdict?"  
"We have, Your Honor."  
"What find you?"  
Doug breathed in then out slowly, following the trail of a small black ant on the floor.  
"In the case of Ross versus the United States of America, we find the defendant guilty of reckless homicide."  
It felt as if the room exploded around Doug. There was no noise at all, no one said a word but it was as if he had slipped into a vacuum, an implosion of the world in towards him as everything closed up and he was sucked into a tiny mass. Everything spun as he sat there, unmoving and steady in his seat. Beside him, DeVann shook his head, like his team had just lost a home game. The shuffling and sighing of the audience came to a stop as the Foreman spoke up again.  
"Your Honor. The Jury has a request. We felt that although the defendant was guilty, there were mitigating circumstances, and we would like to ask you to consider the most lenient sentence possible when sentencing the defendant."  
The judge nodded.  
"Alright," he scanned the papers in front of him slowly, re-reading notes and information collected during the trial. He took his time, and Doug felt like he was losing hours as he sat in his shell, shockwaves rattling through him like little earthquakes. "Dr. Ross..." Doug looked up at the judge, his gaze steady and blank, not betraying the black hole inside him.  
"...you have committed a crime that is illegal in this country and you will be punished for it. But you have also been proven as a doctor who acts in the best interests of those he treats, in a case that is highly controversial. Because of this, and because I cannot deny the involvement of other parties, I am sentencing you to three years, suspended, and the removal of your medical license by the American Medical Association. I am also recommending that Dr. Mark Greene and Nurse Carol Hathaway are reviewed by the AMA board." He banged his gavel once, collected all his papers in a messy heap and left his stage.   
In his seat, it seemed as if suddenly the opposite was happening - his world was blown outward again, exploding in a perfect sphere of voices, laughing, and hope. He was a free man. But he was no longer a doctor.  
  
  
II  
"Facilis descensus Averno" (trans. 'The descent to hell is easy')  
Latin proverb   
  
"Woe to him who is alone when he falleth, for he hath not another to help him up." Ecclesiastes  
  
"C'mon Jack! C'mon! There ya go, run, run!! To first, Jack, to first! Keep going!"  
The small, sandy haired boy stumbled around first base on the little league pitch, before tripping on his untied sneaker shoelace and landing on the sand with a thump. Doug picked him up and set him back on his feet.  
"You gave it a good shot, don't worry. Go back to the bench." He swatted the kid affectionately as he wobbled back to his seat and the next batsman stepped up.   
"Okay Samuel, let's smack it right out of the park!"  
  
---  
  
One week after his case was closed, and a day after he heard that Mark had kept his license, but Carol had lost her RN status, Doug had packed all his worldly belongings into his Jeep and left Chicago. He had paid rent on his apartment for three months in advance, as required if he was leaving at such short notice. The receipt lay on the dashboard as he drove. Next to him on the passenger seat was a bottle of water and everything else that had been left in his fridge. In the backseat, a case of clothes and his basketball took up most of the space, with a crate on the floor containing a couple of CD's, the stereo, some paperwork, and right on top a small cactus that Carol had given him. It was a gift at the beginning of their relationship, a joke about the fact that Doug was never at his apartment to be able to keep a plant alive. Unsure where he was headed, he left the city boundaries with the vague intention of going back to Kentucky. His family were all gone from there, he knew, but maybe there would be work of some sort. Surely it would be easier, knowing the area. But what to do, he had no idea. All he'd ever done was medicine, unless you counted that time he worked in a store, stacking shelves to help his mom out when she lost a job. He had no intention of returning to that. He drove for days, blanking out all that lay behind him, stopping at roadside motels or just sleeping in the car overnight. But as he watched more and more road disappear behind him, the less he realised he wanted to go back to his home state. He wanted somewhere new, where people wouldn't ask questions, where he could be anonymous and keep his pain to himself. Watching road signs, he pulled the car into the outer lane and switched Interstates at the junction. "West", it said blandly at the top of the sign. West sounded good. Sunny. Peaceful, if you chose the right place. Small town America. Pressing down the accelerator, Doug sped on towards his future.   
  
He finally stopped in Kansas, just short of Emporia. He was tired, needed a proper bed and didn't want to drive for at least the next year. A motel, masquerading under the name of "Happy Henry's", would house him satisfactorily for the night, then he could think about what tomorrow would bring. Parking on the gravel lot, he picked his wallet up from the dashboard and went inside to the reception.  
"Yeah?" The girl picked bubble gum off her chin from the bubble that had just burst.  
"Hi. You got-"  
The phone rang and interrupted him. The girl took her gum out of her mouth and picked the phone up.  
"Happy Henry's. Uh huh. Uh huh. Yeah. Uh huh. Sure. Yeah. 'Later."  
She hung up, and put the bright pink gum back in her mouth. Looking lazily at Doug, she said again, "Yeah?"  
"Got a room for the night?"  
"Yeah. Single?"  
"Yup."  
"Twenty Four Ninety Five."  
He handed her his card which she ran through a machine and got him to sign on. Handing him the receipt, she said, "Room 12, turn right it's the last one in the row. You can park your car on the right of the lot but you'll have to move it by 10 tomorrow mornin' so the dustcart can get in. No smoking in the rooms, no drugs, no mess when you leave or else you pay extra, here's your complimentary soap," she said, like she had said it a thousand times before and was only bothering this time because she got commission on the amount of people using the place. She blew another bubble as she held out the small, paper wrapped tablet of soap.  
"Thanks." Doug took it from her and helped himself to the key on the counter. Happy Henry's, what a joke. He went back out to the car, collecting a change of clothes and a few other items for the night before locking it and following the path to Room 12. Unlocking the door, he surveyed the humble abode. Looked like just about every other motel he had ever seen. Bed, small chest of drawers, wardrobe, desk, waste paper basket. Tiny TV on the desk. Radio by the window. He opened another door into the small bathroom, where a leaking shower dripped. Turning back, he tossed his possessions onto the bed and flipped a switch on the TV. Only three channels worked, and he had no interest in a mock gold wristwatch for only $9.99 on the Home Shopping Network. Picking the phone up, he waited   
for a connection.  
"Yeah?" The girl picked up faster than he expected.  
"Hi, uh, where's the nearest shop around here? I need some food."  
"Go right out of the lot and walk about two hundred yards. It's a gas station but they got a little convenience store attached."  
"Okay, thanks, an-"  
She banged the phone down before he could finish. He hung the phone up then picked up again, waiting for the now familiar response...  
"Yeah?"  
"And where's the nearest town?"  
"Beyond Riley's Gas."  
"Okay..."  
"That all?"  
"Yeah, thank y-"  
She hung up again. Doug put the telephone back on the nightstand and shook his shoes off. He'd have a shower before going out. It was humid outside, despite the grey skies looming above, and he was hot and sweaty from sitting inside his car all day. Shedding his clothes in the bathroom, he prepared for the inevitable dual with the hot and cold water.  
  
An hour later, the sun found a gap in the clouds and bounced rays off the back of Doug's neck. Walking down the highway, he looked at the surrounding scenery. You couldn't get much further from Chicago in that respect. Fields bordered either side of the road, one with maize and another lying fallow, green grass grown to about knee height in places. In the distance, a tractor ploughed the land of another field. Few cars had passed him, and he could see the gas station nearby. It was stunningly silent compared to the wail of sirens and screaming of monitors. He strolled across gravel and into the small store that was attached to the gas station. Taking a four pack of beers from the refrigerator and a chocolate bar from the shelves, he laid them on the counter and looked at the guy behind it. He wore an old baseball cap, the kind with the plastic back that was made of mesh. On the front, the faded white foam was covered in dirty fingerprints, and the name of the station was just about visible in places. He had a loose, checked shirt on over a grey vest, and the long hair that he had failed to hold back under the cap brushed the shoulders of his shirt. A small name badge identified him as Ralph. As he tapped the prices into the old cash till, Doug leant forward on the counter and looked out of the window. He took a pizza delivery flyer out of an old display box, which read "Please take one!" as if it was an exceptionally funny joke.  
"That place don't deliver no more." Ralph said.  
"No? You know anywhere that does?"  
"There's a place right in town which delivers chicken, but they don't go more than a foot unless you pay 'em extra."  
Doug grunted, looking at the back of the leaflet he was holding and put it back in its hysterical holder.   
"How far is it into town?"  
"'Bout a mile, down this road." Ralph handed him his purchases in paper bag, and pointed in the direction of the town.  
"Thanks." Doug handed him a couple of bills and told him to keep the change. Leaving the store, he looked down the highway. He'd go and put the stuff down in his room and then head into town to get some supper.   
  
Doug walked into the town an hour later. It was a small place, the main highway lined with a few stores, a couple of fast-food places, and a covered area that masqueraded as a mall, despite the fact it only had three shops and one was boarded up. 'That's my kind of mall,' Doug thought to himself. Taking a route off the main street, he found a park, which ran up a small hill that was topped by a tree. He climbed the hill slowly and surveyed the area below. He could see housing stretching out to the west, further down the highway. On the other side of the main street, beyond the pitiful selection of stores, were a couple of roads that wound into the distance. More housing had sprung up along them, and a larger building sat in the middle, a school of some sort. It had a track and another field behind that which contained a small baseball pitch. To the east, yet more housing took up the space and there was a playground in the middle of one of the housing estates. A trailer park was the last thing he could make out on the horizon, before scattered woodland. Wishing he'd brought one of those beers with him, he looked towards the hazy image of the sun, which was dropping out of the sky in the distance. It was still so humid. He couldn't walk back without a drink of something. Wondering if any of the stores would still be open, he got up and walked back down to the highway.  
  
None of the stores were open, but he caught a glimpse of someone going into a place further up the road. Following the bends and turns in the sidewalk, he found that it was a bar. The local watering hole. A flashing sign, obviously sponsored by Miller Lite, proclaimed loudly that "Everyone's welcome at Babe Ruth's!" Encouraged by the notice, Doug pushed open the door and went inside. The smell of cigarettes and beer hit him instantly as he walked up to the bar. It was a small place, dark with solid wood floors and stools with fake leather seats. The walls, also boarded over with wooden panels, were decorated with old newspaper articles, team pennants, horseshoes, and even some sort of old farming tool right at the back. Across the front of the bar hung the remains of what could have been Christmas decorations, and behind the bar it looked like Santa Claus himself was pouring the drinks. That is, if Santa Claus wore a lumberjack shirt and had a glass eye that looked the wrong way. Doug sat down on the only free barstool, between two guys who threw him sideways glances. Santa wiped the bar down in his direction before coming to a halt in front of him.  
"What can I do ya for?"  
"Just uh, Miller, thanks."  
"Miller? Sure thing." He took a bottle out from under the counter, but before Doug could take it from him, he also whipped out a glass and poured the frothy beer into it.  
"There ya go. Not from around here, are you?"  
"Uhm," Doug took a sip from the novel glass, "no."  
"Down here for a holiday, or work, or something?"  
One of sitting next to Doug snickered. "Hell of a place to come for a holiday, buddy."  
"I'm just kinda...passing through."  
"Yeah, that's what most people do. This is a damn fine town for passin' through." The guy on the other side spoke up this time, and laughed along with the other one.  
"I'm Bill," said Mr. Left, and held out his hand. Doug shook it. "Doug Ross."  
"That joker there is Charlie, and behind the bar is Mac."  
Doug nodded at them both, taking another swig of the Miller.  
"So...where you from, Doug?"  
"Chicago."  
"Chicago? Wowee, that's some distance to come and then end up here."  
"Yeah, it's a pretty long drive. You from here?"  
"Yes sir. Born about thirty miles west but moved here when the farming was good."  
"Same with you, Charlie?"  
"I'm from Oklahoma, moved here for the same reasons though."  
"The farming not good anymore then?"  
"Aw, it's okay. Trouble is, you farm so much on any one patch of land and it gets all worn out and you gotta leave it fallow to recover."  
"Leave it for, say, two year or so."  
Doug raised his eyebrows. "Two years?"  
"Yup. Means we got one hell of a lot of time to kill."  
"That's the best way to kill it," Charlie said, pointing at the beer he had in front of him.  
"So, you all farmers round here?" Doug wondered whether this was the best place to look for work, if even the farmers had nothing to do.  
"Mostly, yeah. Few people who live out yonder, they commute to Madison or Emporia, but that's about it."  
Doug nodded again and drained the last few sips of beer from his glass.   
"Don't tell me you're looking for work too?"  
"Uh huh..." The beer was starting to work, and Doug wondered if it hadn't been spiked with something else. He didn't usually feel like this so early on.  
"What kinda work? What you do in Chicago? Can't have been farming..."  
"I was a doctor."  
"You'se a doctor?" Charlie said, "And you've come down here from Chicago?!"  
"It's a long story..." Doug drank from the new, miraculously filled glass of beer in front of him.  
"Well hell buddy, we got all night!"  
"Yeah, we got two years to sit around and listen to your long story!"  
"Ahh," Doug looked into his beer, and wiped his palms on his thighs. "I worked in an Emergency Room, and I treated a sick kid who was going to die. His mom begged me to help him die...and I did."  
Bill whistled softly. "You committed euthanasia?"  
"Reckless homicide. I told the kid's mom how to give him enough medication to kill him."  
"That's bad, that's bad..." Charlie said next to him, shaking his head in disbelief.  
"Yeah. So, the court said I'm guilty and I do three years suspended, and lose my license."  
"Your driving license?"  
"No, dumbass," Bill threw a beer mat at Charlie, who caught it, "his medical license. Let me buy you another one. Mac, another round for our visitor! One more for me too."  
"No, Bill, don't worry about it, I should be getting ba-"  
"Aww c'mon, you hardly started."  
"Alright, alright." Doug shook his head, grinning. He took the beer from Mac.  
"So, this kid, yeah? He was going to die anyway?"  
"Uh huh. He had a disease, no one with it lives beyond the age of 10."  
"See, now maybe I understand why you helped him to die then. It's a sticky issue."  
"Sure is. The way I saw it, he was in so much pain and he was so near the end anyway..."  
"Yeah. It sucks that you lost your license for that."  
"Yeah, but it's like, where's the line between mercy and murder?" Charlie pointed out.  
"Good point, good point." Bill seemed quite hot on the debate. "And we can't know what it's like, y'know. Unless we're the ones dying."  
"Which we're not."  
Doug felt the need to change the subject - it was all still quite raw in his mind.  
"So you think there's any work around here for a disgraced ex-doctor?"  
"Oy, I doubt it."  
"Depends. What do you want to do?"  
"I don't know. Anything that keeps some money coming in I suppose."  
"Well, okay. What are you interested in?"  
"Huh?"  
"You ever done anything apart from being a doctor?"  
"Nope. I'm a one trick pony."  
"Jeez. You could have thought of that before throwing away your career! You like sports?"  
"Sure."  
"High school are looking for a football coach, maybe teach anatomy too. You could do that."  
"Yeah...I could do the teaching thing maybe. But I'm no footballer."  
"Nothin' to it, buddy. You don't have to play to coach."  
Doug drained his third pint.  
"I don't know."  
"Well, 'scuse me for saying, but I don't think you're in no position to be picky. Go out there, see what they say."  
"Yeah..." The beer was mellowing him and he vaguely thought that maybe he should have left by this point. But he was comfortable and these guys were the only friends he had right now, so he was staying for just a bit longer.  
"Next round's on me," he said, slurring a little as he pushed some bills forward. Mac had disappeared down the other end of the bar, and instead a woman took his money and poured out another three pints. She was a lot younger than Mac, probably his daughter. She had the same nose and chin as him. Her hair was light brown, but highlighted at the ends so it looked like a dusky blonde in the dim light of the bar. She put the beers down in front of them and smiled, moving away to the next order.  
"Heheheh..." Charlie chuckled, watching her go. "That's Marie, Mac's step-daughter. She's a peach, huh?"  
"Yeah." Doug watched her go too.   
"You attached?" Bill asked him.  
Doug paused for thought briefly. "I'd say nope."  
"That makes three of us bachelor boys out on the town then. All them ladies better watch out tonight!"  
"Ah, you're forgetting my Cassie, Bill. I can't be going round doing what I want with whoever anymore."  
"Ah yeah. You hear this, Dougie-boy? Charlie got a girlfriend and he's gonna propose to her next week on her birthday. Got the ring yet?"  
"Yeah, I took out that savings money my Pa left me and I bought this..." He pulled out a small, velvety case from his shirt pocket and showed them the ring. It was small, a very thin band of silver, on top of which rested a tiny chip of glass, in the shape of a diamond.  
"S'beautiful."  
"Thanks. She's gonna be so happy when I show her, it's gonna make her say yes straight away." The young man blushed, although it could just have been the heat. He closed the box up and put it back in his pocket, patting it safely.  
"Okay, so that makes two of us bachelors. Wanna do something about it, eh?" He elbowed Doug and grinned, raising one eyebrow.  
"Aw I don't know...I'm feeling kinda tired..."  
"That'll be the beer working, get him another! I'm tellin' you, I gotta get laid tonight. And it sounds like you need it too, buddy. That's a sad story you got and you need to get over it quick. There's this other bar, little way up the road, you guaranteed to pick someone up there. Whaddya say?"  
"Yeah, what the hell." Doug finished the last few drops of beer in his glass and stood up. Charlie stayed sitting.  
"I'm staying here, fellas. Gonna have one more then get back home."  
"Yeah, you be a good boy now Charlie." Bill winked at him.  
"Nice meeting ya, Doug. See ya 'round sometime?"  
"Sure. See ya, Charlie."  
  
Doug came to the next morning and rolled over, straight into another, warm form beside him. Grunting, he reached for his head to try and stop the throbbing. As he tried to dig through the layers of sleep to remember where he was, he pushed himself up on his elbows and glanced to his right. Next to him lay a woman, on her front. Her short, dark hair lay on her head pointing in all directions, her face turned away from him. The single sheet covered the lower half of her body, but her back lay exposed, revealing a tattoo than ran from the small of her back right up to the crest of her shoulders, portraying a dragon breathing flames. Doug rubbed his left eye, which was waking up slower than the right, and moved further away until he was sitting on the edge of the bed. Staying seated for a few moments in order for his head to adjust, he stood up and picked his jeans off the floor, putting them on slowly. As he reached for his shirt, which hung over the back of a wicker chair, the girl in the bed made a noise and rubbed her nose with one hand before returning to the sound of heavy breathing. Her arm flopped over the edge of the bed. Doug took his wallet from the table by the bed and glanced around - nothing else he'd had with him. Taking one quick last look at his conquest, he swiftly moved the sheet to cover her up to the shoulders, and left the room quietly. He found himself in a hallway, dark and lit by a single bare bulb. He followed the worn tracks in the carpet, down a narrow staircase and eventually found another door that lead to a street. It was still dark outside, but the thin strips of the early-morning sunbeams were reaching over the horizon as Doug stepped out onto the street and tried to get his bearings. Seeing a street sign he dimly recognised from last night, he followed its directions and found himself on the main street. Walking slowly, so as not to disrupt the fragile balance of his headache, he headed in the direction of Happy Henry's.  
  
----------------  
For most of the morning he tried to sleep off the incredible hangover - the kind that you only get after having not been drunk for some time. At about 11am, he decided that he wasn't going to get anywhere lying in the cheap bed with springs digging into his back, so he would have to make a trip into town to get some Alka Seltzer. As he drove down the road, trying not to wince every time another car passed by, he remembered the job suggestion his new friends had come up with last night. Maybe it was worth checking out. Providing he could get something to calm the throbbing in his skull, of course. He wondered for a moment what had happened to Bill. Last thing he could remember was seeing him with a big, busty platinum blond woman who had teeth like a horse. After that, he couldn't remember anything, including just who it was that he had woken up with that morning. He reached the town, and cruised down the main street, scanning the dull shop fronts for a drugstore. He failed to find one on the highway and so took one of the left-hand turnings. Towards the end of a short parade was a small drugstore, with a flashing sign that had the Red Cross emblem on it, blinking intermittently. Pulling his car into the side of the road and turning the ignition off, he checked his wallet for cash. There wasn't a lot left, he'd have to start abusing his credit card soon. Enough for some headache pills though. He got out and locked the car before going into the store. He scanned the shelves on the walls and down the aisles, and seemed to find everything except what he was looking for. Giving up and asking at the counter, the female assistant handed him a box of Advil from a shelf behind her. He paid and left the store, having also bought a bottle of Coke to wash the pills down with. Balancing his drink on the bonnet of his car, he had a look around him while he wrestled with the packaging. He could see the high school further down the road, and there were some kids out training on the track. Beyond the school, he could see the trailer park and then trees. He tipped his head back and washed down the drugs, then unlocked his door and threw in the remaining pills and the rest of the Coke. His interest had been piqued by the high school, and he locked the car again and sauntered across the road and down the hill it was based on. The kids on the track had slowed to a walk and were being called off by their teacher, a balding guy with a whistle around his neck. Doug walked along the front perimeter of the school before finding the main entrance. He jogged up a series of steps that lead to the big doors and went in to a small foyer. Pictures and trophies hung on the walls, and some faded newspaper articles were also framed alongside them.  
"Hello sir. Can I help you?"  
Startled, Doug's head whipped round to see a receptionist looking at him from a separate reception area that was divided from the foyer by a series of glass panels.   
"Yeah, uh, I heard you're looking for a sports coach?"  
"Yes, sir. The job also includes teaching anatomy as well, the full details are on our recruitment board over there," she pointed to a small corkboard on the far wall. "You can send in your application or you can fill one out now, if you want?"  
"Uhm." Doug scrutinised the job specification, which had little more detail than he'd already been told. "I'll fill on out now." 'No point in losing the opportunity,' he thought to himself.   
"Here we go...you can take a seat by that desk there." She handed him the three-page application form and a pen. He sat down at the nominated desk and looked at the first page. Name, address, phone number...this wasn't going to be as easy as it seemed. For one, he didn't HAVE an address at the moment. And he doubted that they'd be particularly responsive to someone who lived in a trashy motel. Flicking the page over to see if the next questions were any better, he wondered whether he was allowed to put down the fact he had a medical degree. After all, he had done the training. He just wasn't allowed to practice any more. It was all a bit of a hazy area. Looking onward to the next sections - interests, health and criminal convictions - he decided to take the form away with him to fill in. It was obviously going to need some thought. He stood up to tell the receptionist what he was doing, but she was on the phone so he pointed at the form and motioned that he would take it home. She nodded and smiled, and he left before the bell sounded for lunch break.  
  
Back at the motel that afternoon, after paying another night's rent to the sulking girl, Doug dropped the application form on his bed and turned the radio on to an oldies station. Opening a beer, he sat down to consider his options, and eventually chose to lie down instead, the form resting across his chest as he thought hard and deep. It was in that position that he woke up five hours later, his beer now flat and the radio playing The Eagles, and his mind full of the Carol. His dream, that she came to rescue him from falling down a vast abyss, albeit that she came on the back of a blue panther with a dragon tattooed on it's hind leg, had shaken him and he tried to forget about it. But he couldn't get rid of the image in his mind, that terrible feeling he had when he woke up and realised where he was. He reached for the small alarm clock which displayed the time as 6.30pm in bright red LCD format. 6.30 in the evening and his stomach told him that it was about time he ate. Wondering if there was any way he could get someone to deliver food to him, he hopefully lifted the phone receiver.  
"Hello?"   
"Hi, uh I was wondering if there's anywhere that delivers food..."  
"No. Nowhere, we're too far out."  
"Oh. Okay, thanks."  
He put the phone down before she did this time. Celebrate small achievements, he thought to himself, and tried to flatten his hair out where it had got spiky in his sleep. Standing up, the application form for the high school job fell off him and fluttered to the floor. He bent over to pick it up and put it down on the small desk. He'd managed to fill most of it out now, having only stated neutrally that he went to college. There was only one section left over, and he knew it was the clincher. There was no way he would get a job anywhere with a conviction of reckless homicide on his record. Trying once again to desperately brush the vision of Carol's face from his mind, he leant over the table and with a pen quickly marked the criminal conviction box with a small 'N/A'.   
  
That night found Doug at the bar again, and the next, and the next. He staggered back to his motel room by himself most nights, but was accompanied once by a tall red-haired woman who had seemed keen to hook up earlier in the night. His new found friends were jealous of his Romeo status but joked about it and even enjoyed setting him up night after night. Sometimes he would play along and sometimes he wouldn't. Either way, copious amounts of beer, scotch and whisky were involved and, as one large guy named Carlos pointed out, you could avoid a hangover very well by just continuing to drink. It was Carlos also who told Doug about a trailer up for rent, if he wanted it. Dulled and softened by the alcohol, Doug found himself accepting and holding the keys to a one bed, fully functional former motor home in the Grant O'Malley Trailer Park, for only $95 a month. It didn't hurt, until a week later when he woke up in his new home and considered the fact that he used to have to get up in the mornings to put bread in the toaster - now he could just lean over and not even have to get out of bed. 'From city   
center apartment block to trailer park in one easy number,' he thought, rolling onto his side to check the time. As he reached for his bedside clock in the murkiness of the morning, he knocked over a half-full bottle of Budweiser onto the floor and he could hear the pale liquid rush out over the linoleum. Groaning under his breath, he got out of bed, stepping over the ever-increasing puddle and grabbed a dishcloth from the sink to mop up with. He was on his hands and knees, reaching for the bottle that had rolled underneath the cot when someone knocked at the door. Wondering who it would be calling at this time of the morning, he unfolded from his place on the floor and answered the door. He blinked out into the bright sunlight and saw that there was a young boy looking up at him, his hand outstretched with an envelope in it. Doug took it, rubbing the sleep out of one eye and squinting at what he'd been presented with. Looked like his mail - it had a stamp on, and the address.   
"Uh, thanks." He wasn't sure what the kid was doing with it - did they employ children as mailmen here? Wasn't that illegal? The boy stood there still, his eyebrows raised expectantly.  
"Oh, I...hang on a moment." Doug realised what he was waiting for and reached behind him for his jeans. Fishing out a quarter, he handed it over.  
"Have a nice day!" The kid waved, running off down the grit and sand that made up everyone's front yard, closing the ramshackle mailbox as he went. 'That must be it,' thought Doug, 'there's one mailbox for the site and the kids deliver the mail to the trailers for spending money.' Didn't seem like a bad thing, although he hoped he didn't get a lot of mail - his funds may not be able to support that. Ripping into the envelope, he closed the door behind him, making sure to catch it with the lock on the back to stop it swinging open when it felt like it. He pulled out a single sheet of paper, and took a look at the first few sentences. He didn't have to read much further down the page to get the message and he dropped it into the wastepaper bin before picking up the empty beer bottle. What had made him think he could get that job anyway? He'd never taught before in his life, he had no valid qualifications and he didn't play football. He rubbed his chin and went in hunt of a razor so he could shave.  
  
It was a Saturday morning, and there seemed like no way Doug could avoid a trip to the bank any longer. He was living off his savings, which were still keeping him afloat, but he knew they wouldn't necessarily hold out too much longer. Now he'd failed to secure the only job the town had for offer, it seemed like he would have to apply for a loan in the not too distant future. He left his home, slamming the door hard shut and turning the key in the lock. If anyone wanted to get it, they could easily pick their way through the thin, tinny metal that supposedly kept the trailer safe, but he doubted anyone would try. He kicked a brick out of the way as he walked down the main dividing track.  
"Hey, mister!"  
It was the mailboy. "Hey."  
"Where dya get that car?"  
"My car?" Doug looked at his Jeep, parked on the road outside the trailer ground.  
"Yeah, s'awful new and shiny for someone living in a dump like this."  
"It was a present." Doug said back, turning around and walking out of the park. He got to his car and went to unlock the door, but noticed something awry. The front left tyre had been slashed, and lay in a droopy pile around the bottom of the wheel.   
"Argh! That little bastard..." Doug gritted his teeth, fighting back a surge of anger. He turned around and marched back into the trailer park. The mailboy and four other kids, all mixes of ages and sizes were playing a shambolic game of stickball in the middle of the track, the oldest looking one aged about 11 standing with the stick smoking a cigarette.  
"Hey!" Doug yelled down to them. They all turned around and stared at him for a couple of moments and then carried on shouting and arguing with each other. "Hey!" he shouted again. "You guys got something you wanna tell me?"  
"Nah." Three of them, including the kid who had delivered his mail, looked genuinely confused.   
The one with the slim cigarette didn't look quite so innocent.  
"Maybe you shouldn't come here with your big car and make people feel bad," he said, taking the cigarette from his mouth and spitting into the dirt.   
"Well maybe it's the only thing I got right now." Doug's voice raised at the end of his sentence.   
"Lot more than anyone else here got."  
"What makes you think that gives you the right to go and slash my tires, huh?"   
"Hey man, cool it. I didn't say I did it. I just saying why someone may have felt like it."  
Doug, unable to think of a reply, boiled on the spot.   
"Maybe that I can tell you who did it." The cigarette butt was crushed under the sole of an old sneaker. He looked at Doug cunningly. Doug stared him back. These kids really knew how to go about business.   
"You know what? Don't worry about it." He turned on his heel, muttering "don't worry about it," again as he left them standing. He left the park and walked up the road towards the high street.   
  
As he walked, head to the ground, he passed the high school. A group of adults were leaving it, no doubt after some Saturday morning adult learning class. Maybe he should sign up for one of those. He was considering going back to check out the timetable of classes and their costs by the doorway when he heard a voice behind him.  
"Hey, mister, mister!" It looked like a kid from the trailer park, but a new one that he hadn't seen before. He was running up the road behind him, with a baseball mitt on that looked about two sizes too big for the small arm it hung off. Doug stopped to wait for him. He could do without more questions about his car, and more charging for information, but he waited anyway.   
"Hi," the boy panted, out of breath from his run up the hill. "Why didn't you want to know who cut your car tire?"  
It was a genuine question. Doug back down to the park, but he couldn't see any other kids lurking around who might have set this boy up.  
"There's not a lot I can do about it now. If it's cut, it's cut. I can't drive anywhere."  
"But didn't you want to beat up Big Davey?"  
"He the guy who did it? I don't want to get into a fight with anyone who has the word 'big' in front of their name." Doug smiled - the kid was harmless enough. He was skinny and pale, and looked about eight, although it was entirely possible he was older.  
"But why not?" the child fell into step next to Doug, looking up at him as he tried to match his pace.  
"Because fighting doesn't help anything..."  
"Oh," the boy was quiet, fingering his glove and trotting along. "But everyone fights sometimes."  
"Yeah," Doug agreed, slowing his speed a little.  
"But you don't fight?" The boy couldn't seem to understand that Doug had walked away from a fight - he was looking up at him as if he'd just landed from outer space.  
"No, I guess I don't," he said, ignoring memories that chose to pop up at that moment.  
"Oh. My name's Jack. What's yours?"  
"I'm Doug, nice to meet you, Jack."   
"I have to go to baseball now, I'm playing second base today."  
"Yeah? Good luck then."  
"It's over there, where we play." He pointed to the field beyond the high school, where small figures could be seen running and swinging bats.  
"Uh huh. You got a team?"  
"No. We wanted one but you need a coach and a uniform and stuff, so we just play for fun."  
"You need a coach?" How convenient...  
"Yessir. The town people said we're not allowed to call ourselves the tigers either which is what we wanted because tigers are scary, but we're not allowed because of the football team, that's called that already."   
"Well, you don't want a team name that you have to share. You need one that only you have, like...the panthers, or the falcons or something."  
"What's a falcon?"  
"It's uh, this big bird that kills...things and then eats them."  
Jack screwed up his face.  
"Birds aren't very scary."  
"I suppose not. How about...the roaches?" Doug had spent two long evenings trying to get rid of the notorious bugs from his trailer kitchen.   
"Eew!" They both laughed.   
"Looks like you should get over there, Jack. Or else they might start without a second baseman."  
"Okay...bye, Doug!" Jack started to run off across the field, but kept turning back to wave. Doug returned the waves, still walking up the road. Maybe he would change his first port of call that morning to the town hall.  
  
----------------------  
  
"Alright kids, settle down. You were pretty good out there today. But next time, no throwing the bat into the bleachers, okay Tariq?" The assortment of children all giggled and looked at the boy holding a softball and wearing an old Pepsi baseball hat. "And also, you gotta remember, all of you, that my decision is final. I don't care if you saw it differently. The umpire is always right, okay?"  
They nodded, a few saying, "Okay."  
"Alright then. I think this week, the cap goes too..." Doug twirled an old Chicago Cubs cap around on one finger. He had come up with the idea of presenting his own cap, a piece of genuine merchandise he had left from Chicago, to the kid who had made the most effort, or hit the most, or just been helpful, each time they trained. To his surprise, the idea had gone down well, almost too well - it was a sought-after prize. It was actually making them play better. "...Candice."   
The little girl, who was no older than seven, grinned from ear to ear as Doug threw the cap to her. She'd hit her first home run that day, and as she was the youngest of the group, Doug felt like he should acknowledge it.   
"Okay then everyone. See you all on Wednesday."   
There was a lot of clamouring and pushing and shoving as all the children ran down the bleachers and jumped off in the direction of their homes.  
"Slowly guys, slowly!" Doug said over the general racket. He didn't want a repeat of last week when one of the kids had lost a tooth after being pushed and falling over. Fortunately, this week there were no injuries, despite the bat in the bleachers incident. Doug went around the plates, picking up any lost items that the players had forgotten, and kicking some of the dirt back into place. He liked his job well enough, but working for two hours twice a week wasn't really paying the bills too well. Actually, it was more like it wasn't funding his lifestyle, but either way he was feeling the strain of trying to save money. The job had given him more confidence, knowing he was employable, and had also given him a great chat-up line - telling any woman that you were a little league coach seemed to have a positive effect on them. The notches on his bedpost were rising.   
  
Picking up a sweater off the third base, Doug looked out to the bleachers to see if anyone had left anything there. It looked clear enough as far as he could see. There were a couple of kids still knocking about, horsing around with their mitts. At the gate of the park, a small figure lingered as well, looking in Doug's direction. Doug waved at the figure, who waved back and started walking slowly away. It was Jack, he knew. Since he had become the team coach, Jack liked to walk back to the trailer park with him, or just 'hang out', as he said. The pattern at home didn't seem pretty for him, Doug had often thought. Jack lived with his mother, who was a woman of similar pale complexion and thin build, but her face was sunken in and she rarely smiled. She worked long shifts, as he sometimes heard her return early in the morning from a factory on the outskirts of Emporia. Jack said that his mom hated her job but that they needed the money. His father was in the picture but Doug had never actually seen him. He'd wondered if the man hit Jack, as the boy often had bruises. But then again, he'd seen Jack trip and fall, or get hit accidentally so many times himself that he couldn't be sure.   
  
Today though, Doug wouldn't be walking back down the trailers straight away as he had to stop in town to collect the replacement tire for the Jeep. It had taken six weeks to be delivered to the tiny mechanics' on the high street, because, the shop assistant had explained, there weren't many people with Jeeps around here and they'd have to ship it in specially - would he mind the extra charge? Actually, he did mind the extra charge, which seemed astronomical, but he paid it anyway. Without a tire, he had no means of travelling any sort of distance, and if he couldn't travel, he couldn't go to the next town to buy it any cheaper. He packed away the spare equipment that the town council had bought, and stored it away in a locked trunk pushed under the bleachers. Collecting his sweater from the grass by first base, he left the field and made his way up the road to the top of the hill. Half an hour later, he was walking back the same way, holding a tire by one side, and a paper bag of groceries in the other arm. When he got back to his trailer, and unlocked the door, he dumped the groceries on the table and put the tire down on a seat. He wasn't going to fit it today, because he didn't want someone else cutting it to shreds before he even got to use the car. So it would live safely inside for now. He made some lunch by dropping a pack of flavoured noodles in a pan of hot water and stirring them for a few minutes. That afternoon his only plan was to jack up one end of the trailer that had started to slip down - he didn't want to wake up one morning and find his feet above his head. He sat down with his lunch with the radio tuned into a sports station, and ignored the fact that the phone had started ringing. The answer phone clicked on to take the message, and a female voice asked him to call if he wanted to get together that night. Unable to place the name of Gina with a face in his mind, he ignored it.  
  
It was at about 7 o'clock that night when Doug had just got out of the shower from washing off oil and other grime from the base of the trailer. He was meeting Bill, Charlie and a couple of other guys at Babe Ruth's for the pool tournament that Mac had organised, and he couldn't find his shirt of choice anywhere. Shuffling clothes around in his case, which he still used as a wardrobe, he grumbled under his breath. He would have thought that now he had so little place to put stuff that it would be impossible to lose anything, but apparently not. Outside, the calls of the park kids playing games and shouts of parents telling them to come and eat dinner drowned out the noise from Doug's radio. That was almost as irritating as not being able to find his shirt, because he'd been trying to listen to a Cubs game. At that moment, someone knocked on the door. Taking a deep breath so he wouldn't yell at any unsuspecting person on the other side of his front door, he opened it with a bang. Outside, standing on the gravel that served as his front door step, Jack stood, wide eyed and holding his baseball bat.  
"Sorry Jack, I can't play tonight, I'm going out." Doug said, sharply. He didn't feel like babysitting. He felt like getting out of this goddamned trailer dump.   
A shout from the trailer opposite silenced him suddenly, and both of them turned quickly to see the Jack's trailer rock a little as something hit the wall, shortly followed by more shouting. The door banged open for a moment and Doug caught a glimpse of Jack's mother running to the other end of the trailer, and a large man following, hollering and cursing. Doug looked back down at Jack, who looked paler than ever.  
"Please?" the child whispered.  
Doug grabbed an old shirt from his case and put it on, also picking up a baseball, and slammed the door behind him as he left. Jack was ahead of him, walking so fast he was almost running, with his head down. Doug followed him to a small grassy area that lay just behind the park.   
"Throw me a high one, Doug!" Jack stood at the far end and waited to be pitched a ball. He seemed suddenly happy, now freed from the havoc and pain inside his own home.   
"Okay, here it comes..." Doug threw a looping underarm ball to Jack, who caught the end of it and hit it straight up into the air above his head. It landed a few feet away to his left, and he collected it and lobbed it back. It fell a few meters short and Doug bent over to pick it up.  
"Hey Jack," he said, throwing another high ball to him, "you're mom and dad seemed pretty angry tonight." The ball skimmed the top of the bat again and went backwards this time, into some undergrowth. "You know why they're fighting?"   
Jack dug the baseball out from a small shrub and threw it back in Doug's vague direction.  
"Sometimes they just fight...throw me a curve ball this time, one that goes like this," Jack swooshed his hand around in the air moving through a semi-circle. He obviously didn't want to discuss what was going on at home.  
"Does you dad ever hit your mom, Jack?"   
Doug could see a change in the boy when he asked. His shoulders dropped, and he squashed his mouth together into a line. He studied his bat and flicked the dirt below his feet with it. His eyes blinked rapidly. Doug picked up the ball from the floor and threw it between his hands and back again as he walked closer to his young companion.  
"Does he hit you, Jack?"  
"No...he only hit me once and it was an accident because he was drunk..."   
Doug nodded, once. "But he hits your mom?"  
"Yeah," it came in a whisper and a small tear splashed the sand, splattering and displacing grains. His head was bowed so Doug couldn't meet his eyes, so he grunted and sat down on the floor next to Jack. Picking up a handful of sand and watching it run off his palm, he remained silent. He could feel Jack wanted to say something, and he wanted to let him have the chance to say it.  
"He doesn't always mean to hit her, because sometimes he has too much beer and he can't control what he does. He gets angry with her about everything when he drinks, and when he doesn't sometime he's angry too. He tells me to go out and play but I can still hear them fighting and I hate it when he hurts her because she cries for ages and just sits there, and I want to make him stop but I can't-"   
He stopped to draw a breath, but couldn't continue because sobs overtook him as everything poured out. He flopped down onto the ground, holding his bat tight and heaving with sadness. Doug studied him and wondered just how many of the other children had to deal with the same thing - the sound of arguing between parents was a common one in the trailer park. It hurt him that he couldn't do anything, and he reached over and rubbed the sobbing child's hair. He would have called Child and Family Services, had this been Chicago and had he still been a doctor. But he wasn't, and he didn't even know if there was such a service here, let alone who ran it. They both sat like that for some time, Doug with his hand on Jack's head or back, trying to soothe him as best he could. Jack leant in towards Doug, sniffing and dripping tears.   
"Why don't you have children?" he managed to get out, wiping an eye.  
Doug shrugged. "Never got around to it. You know, some people aren't made to be parents."   
Jack nodded. "My dad wasn't...you would be a good dad."  
"No, Jack, I wouldn't."  
"Yes you would. You understand people, and you never fight and you care about stuff."  
"There's much more to it than that, buddy. Trust me."  
Jack sniffed and wiped his eyes with both hands.  
"Can we play some more ball?"  
"Sure. Want to pitch?"  
"Okay..."   
They resumed play as the sun dimmed over the park and settled beyond the trees.  
  
It was late the next morning when Doug awoke in his trailer, yawned and saw a woman standing by the bed, putting a shirt on.   
"Mornin'" he said, gruffly, and sat up.  
"Hi," the woman said softly back, and reached for one of her shoes. The other was nowhere in sight, and she began hunting for it.  
"You okay getting home?" Doug rubbed his hair, hoping she didn't want a lift. He suspected if he was pulled over he'd still score quite highly on the breathalyser test.   
"Yeah. Um, have you seen...?" She held up the one shoe she had, a sling back sandal that looked about twenty years old.  
"Uh, no, sorry." Doug had a look under the bed for it, and behind a small chair.  
"It's okay, I've found it," she said, pulling it from behind a drape and putting them both on quickly. "I'd better be going, um. Thanks..." she said, uncertainly, making a direct line for the door. Doug smiled at her and watched her leave the trailer park to make sure none of the kids said anything to her. As she passed through the gates, he crawled back into the bed, lay down and massaged one eye with the heel of his palm, desperately trying to forget what he'd just noticed on the middle finger of her left hand.   
----------------  
  
When he awoke again about an hour later, he felt compelled to escape from the confines of his trailer, and indeed the whole town. It felt like an oppressive force pushing down on him and choking him of air, being in the same small space for so long. He put a pair of jeans on and a black t-shirt, taking three pop tarts from their packet and leaving his trailer. He got into his car, ignoring the small dent to the rear wing where he'd seen a kid bounce a baseball, and stepped on the gas. Driving felt like good therapy, he thought. Go and see what else lay beyond the jagged edges of this tiny place. It was another hot day and he could see the heat rippling off the car bonnet in front of the windshield as he accelerated down the highway that ran between farmland. He groped for his sunglasses on the passenger seat and slipped them on to dull the glare of the sun's rays as he drove towards them. Maybe if he kept driving, he would catch up with that burning fireball.  
  
It was mid-afternoon when he returned to his now home town, a little disappointed having seen little but miles and miles of fields and farmland, but feeling better for the escape. Hot and thirsty, he made the decision to stop by the bar for a cold beer - just the one. But instead of the normal friendly shouts of recognition when he entered, a stony silence greeted him. He felt like he was in one of those old Westerns, when the bad guy walked into the bar and everyone stopped eating and talking. Unsure what was going on, he saw Bill, Charlie and Carlos at a back table and made in their direction. But before he could get too close, he saw all three of them stand up, staring him out as his pace slowed and his brow crinkled in confusion.  
"Guys?"  
"Get outta here, Doug."  
"Huh?"  
"I said, get outta here. We don't want you in here no more, in fact we don't want to see your face again as long as we live."  
Doug frowned harder and took another step closer.  
"Do I gotta say it again, doctor?" Bill used the phrase to taunt him.  
"Whoa, whoa guys, what did I do?"  
"You cheatin' son of a bitch!" the yell echoed around the wooden panels and off the floor as Doug saw a blurred body come flying at him, fists slamming into anything they could find that got in their path, and Doug's jaw was the next victim.  
"You motherfuckin' son of a bitch, you're gonna pay! You're gonna pay!"   
All hell broke loose as Doug lay on the hard floor, trying to fend off the stray blows of Charlie above him, rolling this way and that to deflect them. He moved hard to his right as he felt a boot in his side and scrambled to his feet attempting to defend himself with his forearms. He threw his own punch at the crazed animal that continued to hurl himself, full of aggression and adrenaline, at Doug's sore, bruised body. The deluge of violence stopped as Doug found himself backed up into the bar itself, standing in a puddle of spilt alcohol and smashed glass, and he breathed hard as he looked down and touched his side carefully, feeling a tender area that was swollen with burst blood vessels. So he never saw Carlos pass Charlie a beer bottle, smashed in half so that the rim was comprised of sharp edges pointing skyward in shards that glinted in the dim light. His first knowledge of the weapon was when he felt a numb sensation around his neck and then a rush of intense pain in his stomach as he saw the enraged figure before him embed the glass into his abdomen as a final move. Doug reached for his neck as the pain ran from his ear to his collarbone and he felt the warm sensation of his own blood pumping out over his skin and running down his front. His knees tipped forward as he gripped the skin together, remembering dimly that pressure on the laceration would stop the loss of too much blood, and holding the bottle into his stomach, just grabbing it out of sheer agony. As he slumped to the floor, leaning back so he stayed upright, held up by the bar, at the fringes of his vision he saw Mac holding Charlie's shoulders, pointing to the door and whispering something in a friendly manner. Charlie looked once at Doug and spat on the floor before leaving. Everything was becoming blurrier as he felt his shirt soak up more blood and Bill crouched down next to him.  
"You don't sleep with people's fiancés in this town, buddy."   
As he blacked out, he heard a distant siren.  
  
He came to in a very white room, with an incredible headache. Craning his head forward to see where he was and blinking wildly, a flash of pain shot through his neck and he felt a hand on his head, forcing it back down onto the pillow beneath.  
"Please lie still, sir. You're in hospital, do you remember what happened?"  
"Uh..." The intern was suturing the wound on his neck, slowly and calmly. Doug let his head rest back as the room swam around him in pools, the sudden movement making him light-headed and dizzy. He tried to dig down through the furry layers in his mind for what had put him in this position, and he vaguely recalled going to get a beer.  
"You were in a fight, we removed a glass bottle from your belly. Fortunately it didn't cause any major damage, although you had some mild internal bleeding. This laceration on your neck just missed you carotid artery by about that much." He held up two fingers, measuring roughly a centimeter apart. "You're a lucky man."  
"Uhn, I guess so. How many sutures you putting in?"  
"Well, this is my fourteenth, I'm maybe half way through now."  
Doug grunted. He ran a hand down one side and felt the large patch of a sterile bandage across his midsection, and the gastric lavage tube that trailed out of him.   
"When I'm done here, there's a cop outside who wants to talk to you. Do you feel up to that?"  
"I dunno, I don't really remember all that much."  
"He just wants to know if you want to press charges."  
"No, no charges."  
"Are you sure?"  
"Yeah."  
"Okay..." The intern carried on suturing in silence, and Doug tried to recollect what had happened. He did remember fighting now, or not so much fighting as being an unwilling victim. The sound of Bill's voice suddenly echoed in his painful head and he groaned.   
"Sorry," the intern said, obviously presuming he'd nicked the skin. Doug let him think that, preferring not to share the realisation he'd had. That woman, from last night. She'd said her name was Cass, Cassie, Cassandra? It was a name like that anyway, but he hadn't put two and two together when he'd noticed the engagement ring. And then he'd walked into the bar like nothing had happened...oh, God. What was he going to do now? How could he go back to that tiny little town, where everyone would know? He cringed again as a short burst of pain rocketed up his side, and a nurse removed the lavage tube.   
"You could have given me some warning." he mumbled to her, only to receive a grumpy look in return.   
The intern grinned as he cleaned around his sutures.   
"Okay...Mr. Ross, I'm just going to go and get an attending to come and check you over and release you. Sit tight."  
The nurse cleared away the suture tray and removed the sterile drape from the side of Doug's head with as much delicacy as she'd removed the lavage tube. Doug wondered if he'd done something to piss her off too, but resolved not to ask. He took a deep breath and heaved himself upward to a sitting position, his legs over the side of the gurney. For a moment he thought he'd fall off it, or black out again from the dizziness, but the mess inside his head calmed down and his brain sat still. His jeans were still on, unbuttoned, but his shirt was gone. Bizarrely, one of his trainers was not on his right foot either, and he peered down to the floor where he could see it lying at the far end of the gurney, by one of the wheels. He thought for a moment then got up very slowly so as not to disrupt his equilibrium and walked painfully to his shoe. He slipped it onto his foot without bothering to bend down and tie the laces - that move was a little complex for his liking just yet. He was just scanning the surrounding surfaces for his shirt when the door clattered open and a woman in scrubs and very wet hair came in, reading what he presumed to be his chart. She said nothing, but pressed on his shoulder for him to sit down, then tipped his head to one side to look at the sutures.  
"Good job. Okay, sir. You feeling okay? You lost a lot of blood, so you may feel light-headed for a while. Don't do any exercise or drink any alcohol for the next 36 hours. Eat something as soon as you get home. We did transfuse you two units, but if you have repetitive headaches or prolonged dizziness over the next couple of days, come back. You need to come back in two weeks so we can check that those wounds have healed well enough anyway. You can make an appointment out at the desk..." She filled in his chart as she spoke, signing different bits of paper and making notes of his blood pressure, pulse and oxygen levels from the cardiac monitor above the bed.  
"Um, okay. Can I get a couple more of these dressings?" He pointed to his stomach. "And have you got a shirt I can use?"  
"Sure. Nurse Braithwaite here will just get you some more dressings, and I'll get someone else to get a shirt. We had to cut the old one off, I'm afraid it was pretty much soaked through with blood."  
"That's okay, wasn't anything special."  
The doctor signed the chart one last time and smiled before leaving the room. A few moments later, a male nurse came in with a red t shirt that said "Elvis Lives!" on it, and dropped it onto the gurney beside Doug. On top of that landed a handful of sterile dressings and Doug was quickly shooed out of the room in his new shirt, to make way for the next patient.  
  
Back in the trailer that night, Doug swallowed two more Advil tablets as he dumped his radio into a cardboard box along with some groceries and the cactus. Stopping his haphazard packing for a few moments, he wrote the name of the trailer park owner on one envelope, and the name of the town council director on another. Inside the first he put next month's rent money and a quick note, and in the second he put a brief letter of resignation. Leaving the two envelopes on the counter, he brushed his arm along its surface, sweeping the last few bits and pieces into the box. All his clothes, not including the Elvis tee shirt, were in a suitcase already, and any other items were already in his car. He wasn't going to hang around tonight, waiting for more trouble. He opened the door and dropped the suitcase out onto the gravel, and followed holding the box. He set that down on the floor, returning briefly inside to check for anything else and to collect his paperwork. When he finally shut the door on the trailer and locked it, dropping the keys into the first envelope, he heard calls from behind him.  
"Hey, Doug! Where are you going?"  
"I'm taking a vacation, Jack."  
"Where to?"  
"I don't know. California maybe."  
He picked up his suitcase, with the box under one arm and started to walk towards the car carefully, wincing when the cardboard corner dug into his side. Small feet ran behind him and eventually caught him up.  
"Is it nice in California?"  
"I don't know."  
"Why are you going there if you don't know about it?"  
"I don't know where I'm going, Jack, okay?" Doug snapped. There was a small silence while he opened his car and put everything on the backseat.  
"Sorry." Jack said, quietly, kicking a pebble in the dust. Doug shut the door and sighed. He hadn't meant to be harsh on the kid. Opening the driver's door, he picked Jack up and sat him on the seat, facing out towards him. He leant forward, resting his hands either side of the boy and looked him directly in the eyes.  
"Jack, I'm not going on vacation. I'm going somewhere, I don't know where yet, but I'm going away and I don't think I'll be coming back."  
Jack's face sat as still as stone, the only movement in his eyes as they grew bigger. "Not coming back?" he said.  
"No. I...I'm not a good person, Jack, and I can't stay here anymore. You're a great kid, and this isn't your fault, so don't think it is, okay? I'm just...messed up, that's all. You don't need people like me around."  
"But I do! I do need you here, Doug! Please don't go."  
Doug looked at the ground, shaking his head. Jack held onto Doug's arm, shaking it.  
"Please. I'll be good, I'll be real good. Please, I want you to stay, Doug..."  
Still shaking his head, Doug looked back up at him. The realisation that this really was happening and he was losing a friend, a coach and a father figure dawned in Jack's eyes and his face crumpled, the tears dissolving the stony exterior. Feeling like the lowest species ever to walk the Earth, Doug brushed his hand over the top of Jack's head. "C'mere," he said, quietly and picked him up in a bear hug. He hated doing this to a kid, any kid. He knew what it was like to be on the receiving end and that knowledge comforted him not one bit as Jack sobbed into his shoulder.   
-------------  
  
He found himself back on the highway, with no place to go, some hours later. Although he knew he should be resting to give his injuries time to recover, he felt compelled just to keep driving all night. He didn't feel tired, and he just wanted to run as far as he could from everything behind him. He'd left Jack with his Cubs cap, and given him a fake telephone number because he had nothing tangible to reassure the boy that they could keep in contact. He wouldn't have minded staying in touch with him, but he really didn't see how - cutting all ties was the only way to break free, and it had to be done. He pressed on the gas pedal below his foot a bit harder, watching the gas gauge behind the wheel. He'd have to stop and fill up shortly. Eyes peeled for gas station signs, he put some jazz music on and hummed a little. Darkness was wrapping the area like a cloak, spreading out over the fields and trees and the highway ahead, with only the sharp beams of car headlights to interrupt the flow. It was these bright beams that caught the reflection of a Texaco station sign in the distance and propelled the image to the back of Doug's eyes. He pulled in in due course and filled the tank himself. He was back on the highway in less than five minutes, a pack of sandwiches, a bottle of water and a pack of beers his new passengers. He didn't stop driving until the sun rose the following morning and his injuries cried out for a break. He pulled over onto a grassy verge by the side of the road, parking the car high enough up it for any other cars to pass by with no trouble, and tilted his seat back as far as it would go. Putting a bunched up shirt over his eyes to block out the light, Doug fell into a fitful sleep.  
  
He awoke only a few hours later as a tanker rumbled past, spewing fumes into the atmosphere and Doug's car. He coughed once, not liking the stabs of pain in his stomach enough to want to clear his lungs again, and cranked the seat to a more upright position. Despite the twinging of the nerves in his abdomen wall, he felt considerably better regarding his wounds. He lifted his shirt to check the dressing and reached into the backseat for a clean one. Pulling a face at the state of the gashed and bruised skin, he ripped off the old dressing and put the new one on, then carefully fingered the side of his neck where the sutures were holding him together. It didn't feel too bad, like it was healing slowly. The sutures were neat as well, maybe he'd lucked out with that intern. No matter how neat, he could still visualise the scar he'd have in a few weeks time. All he'd need would be a big bolt to attach to it, and he'd have a great Halloween get up. He rubbed a bruise on his ribcage and yawned, stretching as much as the car would let him before he took out the other sandwich he'd left the night before. It was damp and unappetising, but he ate it anyway, opening a beer to follow it up when he saw that all the water had gone. After a couple of moments to collect his thoughts and establish where he wanted to go, he settled on the vague idea of the New Orleans region - it must have been that music, he thought - he turned the key and got back on the road once more.   
  
He had reached the Mississippi Delta by the evening, and was following the highway towards the coastline as the sun set over the near-deserted road. He had opted to get off the Interstate before the approach to New Orleans so he could avoid the Mardi Gras celebrations and enjoy the countryside some more, and there were few other people with the same idea it seemed. He was cruising at reasonable speed, looking out towards the distant horizon where the Gulf of Mexico was glittering in the subtle light, and sipping a beer, when his vision started to blur. Initially putting it down to the bugs and dust in the air from the cotton fields, he rubbed each eye alternately, but nothing changed. He blinked hard and rubbed again, shaking his head from side to side. When he looked back up and failed to identify the sharp bend in the road, the Jeep careered off the highway and slumped down into a ditch, the front hitting the far slope and slamming Doug's head into the steering wheel. His belongings in the backseat shot forward and the cardboard box tipped its contents onto the floor. On the passenger seat, empty food packets slipped onto the mat and under the dashboard, and three empty beer bottles dropped off onto the stick shift and smashed. Smoke rose from the car bonnet, which had crumpled up from the impact and the back wheels spun in the skid marks their front counterparts had made. On the road behind, the car had disappeared from view, and the passing Chevrolet and its driver failed to notice the damaged automobile and the unconscious body inside.  
  
It could have been the noise that woke him, or the dampness, in the end. A short sharp thundercloud burst above and the rain trickled into the car through the open window and the sunroof, dripping onto Doug's head and shoulders. His left side absorbed rainwater that showered in from the open window, and a solitary drop ran by itelf down the length of a crack in the windshield. Doug's lips moved in a soundless cry and he was aware of the sound of the rain before he could open his eyes to see it. When he did lift his heavy eyelids, all he saw was the black rubber cover of the steering wheel, so close and distorted that for a moment he wondered if he had gone blind. His right arm, previously flopped at his side, moved as if of its own accord to the dash board and then his cheekbone, groping to feel where the pain was coming from but not hitting the mark. Still leaning against the wheel, Doug turned his head sideways so he looked out of the window. It was raining, that had been the noise. And he was in a field, somewhere and there were clouds passing by overhead...his left arm was cold, especially his fingers. Making an effort he lifted it from where it hung and found his fingers wet - they had been sitting in a collected puddle of rainwater. With an intense burst of concentration, he raised both hands to the wheel and pushed himself upright, his head lolling a bit from side to side, chin to chest as he stuggled to come to terms with the new position and the angle at which he sat. He was tipped forward, the force of gravity wanting to make his upper body lean against the wheel more than ever. Looking slowly and carefully around out of both windows, he could see the surrounding land at an angle, the tall grass leaning backwards. He pressed a hand to his head where it really throbbed and felt a bump the size of an egg underneath. Taking the hand away to peer at it, he found blood smeared across it. Thinking it was from his head he used the other hand to feel again but it came away clean. He studied his right hand again and saw that it was the skin there that was cut in lines, a small shard of glass stuck in one. He pulled it out, gritting his teeth slightly as he did so, then wiped his hand down the shirt he was wearing absent-mindedly. His head really was pulsating. He needed to get out of the car. Yanking as hard as he could in his weakened state at the door handle, it cracked open and he pushed his body weight against it until it creaked open some more and he slid out. He'd crashed. The front end of the Jeep was rammed into the far bank of a ditch, the rest of the car lying at a twenty five degree angle as the rear wheels balanced on the other bank. His windshield was cracked across the middle, and the passenger window glass had fallen out completely. Taking in the situation, through the cotton wool around his brain, he touched the bonnet of the car where it had creased on impact, then took a step back. A glance around confirmed he was definitely alone, and holding one hand in the other he scaled the bank of the ditch to be certain that there was no one driving past either. He went back down to the car, feeling the lump on his head some more. Peering in through the windows, he saw his packing spread liberally on the floor and reached in, picking out a cloth to wrap his hand up. Rubbing his face with the good arm, he looked into the driver's seat and tried to remember what had happened. All he could remember was driving and seeing the sea in the distance - after that, nothing. He suddenly noticed the glass, smashed pieces lying around the stick shift and looked at his hand, making the conclusion about how he got cut. But where had the glass come from? Reaching over the seat he brushed some of the glass around, and picked out a rounded cylinder of glass, complete but snapped from a bottle. The recollection of buying beer at some point came back to him and he sat down on the grassy slope. Had he had the beer and then crashed? Had he been driving under the influence, something that could not only have killed him but anyone else who got in his way? Remembering his own father's death, thoughts flew arond his mind faster than he could process them. He ran a hand through his short hair, brushing the rain out of it now the cloud had passed. Remembering his previous injuries as he did it, he felt around his jaw and his front, thankful that he hadn't ripped open the sutures on his neck - if he lost blood in large quantities out here, he would have been dead in a matter of hours. He thought back again to the reckless behaviour that had lead him to this position, and fingered the bandage under his shirt. He could dimly recall soemthing the doctor had told him...something he should have known as well. He wasn't meant to drink any alcohol within 36 hours of the fight because of the amount of blood he'd lost then...he put two and two together and realised that he hadn't been driving over the limit, or at least it was unlikely. Instead, he'd presumed he was okay and recovered enough to be able to drink. Just the one beer had probably gone straight to his head, he thought. He looked at his car, and then back down at his feet. However he'd ended up here, he was still in a mess.   
  
Doug sat on the edge of the cliff, overlooking the Gulf. It was a clear night and the moon was riding high, it's reflection fractured by the rise and fall of the water below. Every so often, a soft chugging sound would signify the departure of yet another fishing boat going out for the night's catch, and as yet none had returned. Fingers of the sea reached across the small bar of sand at the foot of the cliff, wiping down the beach as they were pulled back out again. The air was still and Doug sat in it, watching the waves and the boats. He had a sweater, dropped in a pile next to him, and the grass flattened underneath it but sprung up around the edges like it had been there forever. It was one of the things he had chosen to rescue from his car, and walk with across the fields until he reached the place he was now. Between his hands, resting on his lap, Doug held a small, red clay tub like a lifeline. In the tub was the bright green spiky plant that had travelled with him from Chicago, and although it was minus a large proportion of the soil it was previously planted in, it was still alive and looked as fresh as the day Carol had presented him with it. Doug stopped to wonder every so often, what people would think if they came across him, sitting on the cliff edge, holding a potted cactus. But mostly his mind was elsewhere, thinking about Chicago, about Carol, about Charlie, about Jack. He'd hurt so many in such a small amount of time, and thinking back over the last year hurt him - he didn't want to acknowledge where he'd been, where he'd ended up, and what he'd become. But there he was, with only himself to face up to now. He knew if he didn't now, then there would be no way out - a downward spiral to a sorry ending. He had to admit to himself that he couldn't go on, and that somewhere there was a gaping vacuum inside him he had to fix. Trying to drink it away, that hollow feeling, trying to get over it with as many women as possible, was not the answer, it couldn't be the answer any more. He didn't want to die on a dusty road somewhere, with a blood alcohol level sky high and his face smashed by a car engine, a hooker in the backseat. He had been on that road, heading at full speed in that direction, but now was the time to make a u turn. Now, with his stab wounds and his crash injuries, his Elvis t-shirt and his jazz CD. Now was the time. He was going to go back home and find Carol and close the sucking perforation within his soul.  
  
  
  
  
III  
"It's your face I'm looking for, on every street." Mark Knopfler, On Every Street  
  
"When you reach the part where the heartaches start, the hero would be me - heroes often fail  
And you won't read that book again because the ending's just too hard to take."   
Gordon Lightfoot, If You Could Read My Mind  
  
"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. Thank you for your patience, we should be landing shortly. The current temperature in Chicago is 52 degrees and the time is 4.17am. Thank you again for your co-operation, we should be landing some time in the next fifteen minutes."  
Doug handed the empty cup that had contained orange juice back to the air steward, and dumped the in-flight magazine back in the pocket on the seat in front of him. They had been circling above the city for an hour, waiting for a place in the landing order after a sudden burst of turbulence had thrown them back into the sky during an attempt at landing earlier. The grumbling businessman he sat next to had spent the entire time alternating between loud typing on his laptop and heavy sighing. As a late booking on the flight, Doug had been unfortunate enough to be assigned the middle seat of three and was trapped in his place on the other side by an obese woman who liked to laugh out loud to whatever she was listening to on her Walkman. Standing up to get his hand luggage from the container above meant dislodging himself from his wedged position and trying to politely lift his case out while the woman gave him no room at all, and the businessman cursed under his breath as whatever he was working on crashed. He sat back down, clamping the cheap rucksack between his feet as he reached for the safety belt and discovered that the woman was sitting on one end. He pulled it hard and it shot out from underneath her, enough to expect a reaction but there was none. Increasingly overjoyed that the flight was soon to be over, he did the belt up and chewed one of the offered toffees to stop his ears popping during the descent. The plane finally drew to a halt on the ground and Doug pushed his way out of the plane and into the O'Hare terminal, intent on getting as far away from his fellow travellers as possible. Only when he left the building, light jacket over his shoulders and bag by his side, did he fully appreciate that he was back in Chicago. 'It's home, Captain,' he thought, 'but not as we know it.' Heading in the direction of the nearest hotel, a big tower block by the airport, he let the wind breeze about him, welcoming him back but at the same time blowing a cold warning of things to come.  
  
The room came at a price, but Mastercard could handle it - at least, for now. It was a great improvement on anywhere he'd stayed in the last year, with a king size bed, cable TV, thick carpet and a mini-fridge stocked with refreshments. Helping himself to a bottle of water and a pack of peanuts, he left his bag on the floor and sat down on the bed, sinking slightly into the rich folds of the duvet. The remote for the TV had so many buttons he wondered that if he pressed the wrong combination he might set off a nuclear missile, but instead found that the set on the wall just increased its volume to deafening levels. Pushing a couple more buttons until it reached a more satisfactory level of sound, he flicked some channels and settled on one showing 'Die Hard'. Or 'Die Hard 2'. Just something with Bruce Willis running around saving the world. He watched with feigned interest for a few minutes until the telephone on the desk caught his eye. Carol's number was bouncing off the insides of his skull and ricocheting around his brain, but something was holding him back. He didn't want to call her and just announce he was back - he didn't want to give her the opportunity to hang up on him. Which he knew she would. Instead, he wanted to confront her, face to face, and tell it all straight out. Apologise. Admit he was wrong - so wrong, about everything. Everything but her. She was the one thing he'd done right in all these years. He ached with the realisation that he'd had her and thrown her away, and it wasn't even for the first time. She had every right not to listen to him. But he was going to convince her, for sure, this time was like no other. This time there was to be no room for mistakes, judgement errors, morals or playing God. This time it was just him and her. And all he could do was pray that she heard him.   
  
Peering through the windows of the house he had known so well the next morning, he felt like he'd walked into a ghost town. He had stood at the door for some time before actually knocking, a tornado of thoughts and fears sweeping around inside him, but when he did knock there was no response. He'd knocked continually for about five minutes, and even called out once, but still nothing. He didn't want to believe that there was no-one home after he had finally decided how to go about this. Now he stood at the window, peering through the thin drapes. Inside it was dark and he had trouble visualising anything, but he could make out the shape of the couch, and what he presumed was an umbrella resting against it. It was definitely still her house, for the drapes were the same and the plant pot on the porch was still there, though the shrub inside had died, wrinkled and brown with age. Stepping away, back down the stairs and onto the sidewalk, he took a last glance back. The paint on the house was peeling, flaking off around the window frames and front door. Unusual for Carol to let the house get into that condition, for that plant to die. Unusual for her not to answer the door. It was entirely possible she was working, or staying with friends or her mother. He would just have to try again later. A slow, sinking feeling hit the base of his stomach when he considered that she could be there and had seen him knocking - but was still so angry with him for what he did that she didn't answer. He tried to brush the thought out of his mind, and sipped at the coffee he held in his hand.   
  
The sun was shining, but the wind was cold and he burrowed down into the collar of his jacket as he sipped, walking down the road. Not knowing where to go, he headed towards the lake and stopped there, breathing in the smells of fresh pretzels, the salt from the lake, and the exhaust fumes from the passing bus. After so long in the country, it seemed like returning to a giant ant hill of people scurrying about at a warped speed, like a documentary clip of night turning into day. It was nice to stand still in the middle of it all and enjoy the anonymity that the city provided. He remembered coming to Chicago years ago for that very reason. It had seemed like any other city to him then, the only other attraction being the lakes. They gave the illusion of living on the coast, and coming from a small town in the very centre of the country made the grass of Chicago look a lot greener. Watching a sailing boat whip around in a tight circle in front of him, his mind slipped back to his reason for being there, which was so different from the original career move he had made. He wondered if he should call Mark to help him establish where Carol was, what she was doing and if he would need to buy a full suit of Kevlar body armour before he went to her house again. But could he really expect Mark to be that responsive either? He'd been screwed over as well, and he'd always been protective of Carol. Feeling like the big, bad wolf, he saw a payphone by the bridge and walked slowly in its direction. If he could talk Mark into meeting him somewhere, where he could confess and unload the burden of his mission, and apologise - he chastised himself for forgetting that the apology should come first on the agenda - well, then maybe it would mean he had more of a chance with Carol. He reached the area where the sidewalk widened into an expanse of concrete occupied by a hot dog stand, the telephone booth, and people hurrying back and forth, muttering into their cell phones, eating pastries and trying to keep their hair in order as the brisk breeze whipped across the bridge. There was someone else using the phone, talking loudly in Spanish into the receiver, and Doug stood waiting politely until the man inside slammed the phone down and left, carrying three huge bags of what Doug presumed was laundry. He moved inside the box and fished a couple of quarters out of his jacket pockets, glad that he'd been lucky enough to find one that someone had left in the hotel drawer. Dropping them into the appropriate slot, he dialled the number he could still remember by heart and waited for a response. When none came he wasn't surprised, as the doctor may well be on shift. Wondering for a moment whether he could remember Mark's pager number, he decided he couldn't and stepped out to let the next person use the phone. He stood by a trashcan and bit a fingernail. There wasn't going to be much getting round it. If he wanted any information today and now, he would have to go to County and face the demons. He hoped they hadn't included a restraining order in his conviction, as he crossed the bridge to the centre of the city.  
  
"Aah, Dr. Weaver?"  
"Randi, what is your job here again? Please tell me if it has changed to include nail painting, because I am obviously under the mistaken impression that you're meant to be sorting these charts." Kerry Weaver dropped a chart with a clang in front of the desk clerk. She looked up to where Randi was nodding her head and saw the dark form of her former paediatric attending walking towards the desk.  
"Doug?"  
"Hi, Dr. Ross. Oops, I mean, Mister. What happened to your neck?" Randi asked, and picked up the chart that had been so deftly dropped in front of her.  
"'S a long story. I don't want to bother you, but I'm looking for Mark, he in today?."  
"No, sorry Doug." Kerry rounded the desk, confused, and gestured for him to go into the lounge, an arm behind him to steer. He complied and went in, looking at the lockers and running his fingers over a few nametags he didn't recognise. Kerry watched him for a minute before saying, "Mark's out of the country at the moment, he's on a lecture tour of Britain with Elizabeth Corday." She paused. "Was there something I could do?"  
"No, I uhm...Britain?"  
"Yes, apparently there has been increase in emergency medicine doctors over there, and they're very interested in how we run traumas."  
Doug raised his eyebrows and nodded. The table had changed, he thought, but it looked like they still had the same lousy coffee.  
"What happened?" Kerry gestured to the scar that ran from his jaw to the collarbone, and the bruising on his forehead.  
"Had an accident. Do you know when Mark will be back?"  
"Not for a month or so." She paused. "We haven't heard from Carol since she lost her license."  
Doug grunted, then chose to respond to her first comment. "A month? Okay. Thanks, Kerry. I should be going..." he pointed at the door and walked towards it.  
"Wait Doug, just stay for a couple of minutes. Tell me what you've been up to."  
"No, really Kerry, I have to make a move. Thanks again." He pulled the door open determinedly and shoved his hands deep into his pockets as he left the emergency room. Mark wasn't there, Carol wasn't at home...now what did he do? Go back to the hotel and wait, he supposed. He could stop by at the house again later in the day.  
  
Doug took a hotdog back to his room, not wanted to push the limits of his credit by using room service. He sat on the bed, feeling at a loss, his carefully thought out plans thwarted so soon. Carol hadn't been back to County since the court case, but he wasn't especially surprised. He'd felt like he was returning to the crime scene by just walking through those doors, and seeing the ER again. It wasn't a pleasant experience, so he could understand why Carol wouldn't want to return even to visit. But where was she now? Without a license, she couldn't be working in the medical field anymore, so if she was working then she must have followed another path. He couldn't imagine her being anything other than a nurse, and his gut feeling told him that she had been unable to believe it too. What would someone do in that position? He realised that he was not the best person to be looking at for examples, for what had he done when he was forced to give up medicine? Unwilling to analyse his own behaviour, he hoped with all his heart that Carol had not slid off the rails as badly as he had.   
  
His thoughts were interrupted by the ring of the telephone, beeping loudly on the desk opposite the bed. Doug started, and got up off the bed slowly, suspicious about who would be calling him. His hand hovered over the receiver; watching it shake with the volume and feeling the vibrations tingle against his palm. As it began a fourth ring, he picked it up.  
"Hello?"  
"Mr. Ross?"  
"Yeah."  
"We have a call for you from Mark Greene. Would you like to accept?"  
"Uh, yeah."  
Mark was calling him? From Britain?  
"Doug?"  
"Hi, Mark."  
"Is that you?"  
"Sure. At least, I think it's me."  
"You were looking for me?"  
"Uh, yeah. How did you know?"  
"I had to call County today, feedback to Kerry on this tour I'm on, so she can justify the hospital expense to the board..."  
"Ah."  
"Yeah. So..."  
"Ahm, I came back to Chicago...it's a long story and I don't want to run up your long distance phone bill, but I'm looking for Carol."  
"Oh. I haven't seen her, Doug."  
"You haven't? How long have you been over there?"  
"No, I mean, I haven't seen her since a couple of days after...when she lost her RN."  
Doug was silent. That was definitely weird.  
"She was pretty upset, Doug. I wasn't exactly over the moon myself, but-"  
"Yeah, I'm sorry. I can't tell you how sorry I am, Mark."  
"Well, Carol took it a lot harder. She disappeared two days after she lost her license. I think she went to her mother's for a while, but she wouldn't take any calls."  
"She went to Helen's?"  
"Yeah. I'm almost certain."  
"Okay. Okay...thanks, Mark. Hope you have a good tour, or what's left of it."  
"Yeah, yeah. It's going okay so far. I'll see you when I get back."  
"That'd be good. Bye."  
Doug clunked the receiving back into its cradle long enough for the ring tone to be restored. He picked up again almost instantly and asked the receptionist for an outside line. Thumbing through the wrinkled old pages of the telephone book left on the desk, he soon came to the listing for Helen Hathaway, and prodded the numbers on the phone with his index finger. As he waiting for the line to connect, he lifted the phone and stretched the wires out so he could sit on the bed, sliding his shoe onto his foot again and starting to tie the laces with the phone balanced between his left ear and shoulder. The phone rang three times before an answer phone message flicked on and confirmed that it was definitely still the Hathaway household. He didn't want to leave a message, knowing full well that if he did it would be erased by Helen before Carol could even get to hear the 'Hello'. Instead, he hung up and grabbed his other shoe, tied it on and closed the hotel room door behind him.  
  
He arrived at the front door to the house half an hour later, his cheeks tinged with red and his mouth blowing warm air so that it met the cold and formed a thin mist in front of him. Once again unsure of his approach, he hesitated on the path and observed the house. The plants on the windowsills were green, and some were even flowering. A doormat lay on the porch with the word 'Welcome' stamped on it. A black and white cat sat in a wicker chair and licked one paw, watching Doug with one beady eye. It certainly looked lived in, which is more than could be said for Carol's house by the tracks. he took a deep breath in, cleared his throat once and stepped forward, up the porch steps and to the door, where he rang the bell once and tried to pat down his hair into some sort of respectable condition. He didn't know why it always felt like he was going to church when he visited Helen's house, but he was aware of the fact he didn't really look very presentable in his clothes that he'd been wearing for almost four days now. He was rubbing at a small white mark on the thigh of his jeans when the door opened and someone said something in Russian. He looked up quick enough to see the door swing shut in his face and the angry retreating form of Helen Hathaway as a blur in the frosted glass. That was not a good start. Sucking up his dignity, he knocked on the door again and listened to her yell from some distance away,   
"Go away, Doug Ross. She's not here, thanks to you-" It was shortly followed by more Russian, what he could only presume was a vast tirade of insults. To his left, the cat stood up on the chair, arched its back in a stretch and jumped off the seat. Not being much of a cat person, Doug wondered if it was going to bite him, trained to maim any disgraced boyfriends or unwanted visitors. Instead, it rubbed itself against his leg and meowed at the door, looking up hopefully. Doug stared back at it and let it yowl. A short while later, the door in front of him slipped open again and the cat dashed inside.  
"You're still here. You get off my porch now, or I'll call the police and have you arrested for trespassing."  
"Wait, Helen-"  
"Go!"  
"But I-"  
"I said go! You understand English, don't you?"  
"I want to see Carol."  
"She's not here, go away." Her tone, although still harsh and prickled as barbed wire, had changed. Something in her eyes shifted almost imperceptibly. He could sense she was about to verbally abuse him some more, but he got there first.  
"I just want to apologise to her, that's all. I don't expect anything else, I just want her to listen to my apology..."  
"Well she can't. She's not here, you deaf too now? Go on, get. Get away from me."  
"Please, Helen. Where is she?"  
"I said, get off my porch! You take my daughter away and now you want to apologise? You-" She was off again. Doug held up his hands in defeat, and backed off down the porch, down the steps and the path as the door slammed so hard that he was afraid the hinges would snap.  
  
_______________  
  
That night, he lay on the bed in his room and let his gaze go beyond the plain white ceiling, to a higher place in his focus. So much ran around his mind: fears, questions, pain, worry. She'd become untraceable. The final stinging words Helen had yelled - "You take my daughter away," had set red lights flashing before his eyes and warning chimes ringing in his ears. She didn't know where Carol was either. She thought he'd taken her away. Mark didn't know where she was - he hadn't known for a year. Had it been a year since she'd gone missing from the face of the planet? And no one had even seemed to question it? Why would she go, where would she go, how would she go? How could he find her? How could he tell her he still loved her? He felt like he was going to implode with frustration, and leave only the imprints of his questions behind in a bloody mess on the hotel walls. Then the sudden burst of inspiration, the flash of a path of discovery burst into his brain from nowhere as his focus returned to the soft glean of the white paint on the ceiling above him. So stark-staringly obvious, he sat up quickly and gave himself head rush. The police. Surely someone, Helen, Mark, someone else at the hospital would have contacted the police when they failed to get in touch with Carol? There was no way that they wouldn't have reported it, was there? He reached for the phone once again and leafed through the phonebook for the appropriate number. He dialled the number slowly and was not happy when the connection jumped to an automated voice asking him to press a number for the service he required. Three numbers later, while waiting to be connected to a genuine human being, they started playing elevator music and he stabbed a hole in the phone book with his pen out of frustration. He was just about ready to snap the whole pen in half when a voice answered.  
"Chicago PD, how can I help you?"  
"Uh, hi. I wanted to know if you could tell me if someone had been reported missing?"  
There was a short silence  
"Sorry sir?"   
"I've got a...friend, and she seems to have disappeared. But I've been away from Chicago for a while and I wondered if she'd been reported missing by anyone..."  
"What's your friend's name, please?"  
"Carol Hathaway."  
He heard sounds of typing, and other voices in the background. It sounded like a giant call centre.  
"Can you hold on one moment, please sir?"  
"Sure."  
The typing had stopped, and he heard a slight clunk as the phone receiver, or mouthpiece, or whatever it is they wore in these places, got put down on the desk. A few minutes later, he heard two voices murmuring, and shortly after that the phone attendant came back.  
"Hello sir?"  
"Hi."  
"I'm sorry about that. I had to go and talk to my supervisor about whether we're allowed to release information to you."  
"Okay..."  
"We do have a Missing Persons Report on file for a Miss Carol Hathaway, but I'm afraid I can't tell you any more than that, because it's confidential police information."  
"Can you tell me who filed the report?"  
"No, sir."  
"And she's still missing?"  
"If we still have the report, then yes. That's all I can tell you, sir."  
"Okay, okay. Thanks for your help. If I find her, do I just contact the police again?"  
"Yes, just give us a call."  
"Okay. Thanks."  
"Bye now."  
Doug hung up and sat back down on the bed with a soft thump. Someone had reported her missing. So it was real. She really had just gone. Before this confirmation, he had wondered if maybe she'd just done what he did - tried to move on by going as far away as possible. But now, now it seemed not. Now Carol Hathaway was a missing person and that scared him. The fact that the police were involved. You never heard anything good come of a missing person; they were usually either teenage runaways, or senile old people who had wandered off. When it was someone so young, so beautiful...he sighed and rubbed his eyes hard. Whatever had happened, he was going to find out. He had to find her. This was more than just an apology now. He was filled with a sudden desperation as he realised that now there was nothing more in the world he wanted but to see her face again. He didn't care if she pushed him away, but just to know she was okay, just to know that she was safe would satisfy him. He sat there, his brow furrowed and his face lined from the last year of his life, the scar that ran up his neck aching slightly as he ran a finger down it unconsciously.   
  
Doug stood on the porch of the house in the dark, listening to the wind in the tree and the faint humming of the El in the distance. The house before him was in darkness, a sooty black colour inside, a deep misty grey on the outside. He brushed his hand over the wooden slats and watched the crisp paint flakes fall away to the floor. Some stuck to his hand and he tried to brush them off, but the static electricity he had created glued them to him and he gave up, instead reaching for the glass plates in the door. He wiped some dust off and tried to peer through to the inside, but it was so dark that he couldn't see anything. His head dropped for a moment as he took a breath and let it out, digging his hand deep into one pocket and finally pulling out a shiny key that glinted in the dim moonlight. He slowly slid it into the lock on the left of the door, and turned it at the same time as pressing gently against the wood. In one smooth action, the house opened up to him. The musty smell of damp filtered out, and a pile of mail crackled behind the door. Doug bent down to pick it up, slowly flicking from envelope to envelope, hoping to find maybe a clue or hint, but it seemed that it was a series of junk mail, bills, and free catalogues. Dropping the pile softly onto the small table by the door, he looked around at his own former home. Nothing had changed, the furniture was all in the same positions, the same rug was on the floor, the same magnets on the fridge. He moved lightly over the floor, tried flicking a light switch and for a moment he was rewarded by bright light that made him squint. The light bulb blew and left purple dots in his vision as he made he way across the den towards the kitchen. He touched little things on his way past, smoothing the quilt on the couch, feeling the frame of a painting on the wall. The kitchen light flipped on and gave out a dim golden glow that reached back out to the den, almost to the door. Doug looked around, blinking in the light, and lifted a layer of dust from the counter on one finger. He opened the fridge and found a carton of milk that smelt so bad that he closed the door again instantly. A solitary breakfast bowl lay upturned by the sink, alone and forlorn. The water refused to run from the taps, and he suspected that it had been cut off considering the bills that had littered the hallway floor. Underneath the cupboards on the far wall were the jars of pasta and rice that he remembered teasing her about, and a plant pot that had no plant inside it. A small piece of paper lay next to it, and he picked it up, shaking the year's worth of dust and grime from the surface. It was a photo of some sort, and he turned it over to find a series of black and grey swirls, patterns that were trying to form an image that he couldn't make out. The edges of the paper were hard and crispy, but jagged, as if they were cut from a larger photo, and Doug stared, mystified at it for some time. Wiping off his fingerprint with his coat sleeve, he dropped the photo into his pocket and looked out to the den.   
  
He stood like that for some time, still trying to get everything straight in his mind - trying to accept the fact that Carol wasn't there and no one could find her. He wanted to leave the house now, it was too haunting, too echoey and silent. The smell of the damp crept into his senses, and it was destroying the memories he had had here, the smell of the soap she used, the smell of the cake she made once, the smell of her hair. It felt like a spear through his heart, the longing for her at that moment, that one instant. But before he could leave, he should check upstairs, just a quick glance. For he did not want to spend time in what had been their bedroom for fear of such brutal pain striking him down completely. He crept up the stairs, and creaked across the upstairs level, taking a brief look into every room. Nothing was out of place. Only a short stop in the room that Carol had used the wardrobe in confirmed that she had initially left out of choice - for few clothes were left on the rails, and the small suitcase she kept for travelling was gone. He shut the closet doors with a bang, forgetting how quickly they snapped into place, and the gust of air they created blew out scraps of paper from the floor of the closet, through the slats in the doors, to the carpet in front of Doug's feet. He picked them up and looked them over, mostly all blank and ripped at the edges where the paper had been torn. Half way through the small pile though, was a piece of paper that was different from the rest, lined like it was from a legal pad, and on it was scrawled a number in Carol's sloping handwriting. Doug rubbed his thumb over the ink, wondering whose phone number it was - a man's? - before stashing it into his pocket and leaving the room. He couldn't bear to be there any longer, and he left the house quickly, walking briskly away without a glance behind him.  
  
It wasn't until the early hours of the morning that Doug fell into a short and fitful sleep. He had spent hours gazing at the photo, tracing patterns across the image with his finger, feeling a dim recognition something he'd seen like it before. But he couldn't place it at all, and figured it was probably due to lack of sleep. He let himself drop backwards on the bed, exhausted yet unable to sleep for all the activity in his brain. The final thought he could remember having before falling into a semi-conscious state was that maybe Helen knew the name from the piece of paper.   
  
He awoke to the demands of the cleaning lady several hours later, as she banged her vacuum cleaner into his door and started to open the lock. Grabbing the t-shirt he had thrown off the night before, Doug hurriedly dropped it over his head and grabbed the door handle.  
"You want cleaning?" The woman, unstartled by the door swinging away from her and the dishevelled man behind it, said, in a thick foreign accent.  
"Uh no thanks, not today."   
He remembered when he was younger, during a time of more money rather than less, wondering why his mom spent hours cleaning the house up before the cleaning lady came. Now he could understand it, he thought, as he turned back round and closed the door behind him. During the course of the last couple of days, the room had changed from executive, smart, businessman to lonely, messy, single guy. There were old clothes scattered on the floor, half full cans of flat Pepsi on all surfaces, one of the pillows from the bed now sticking out from underneath it, and most of the covers on the floor. He should probably do something about it before the cleaners tried to come again tomorrow. But then his domestic inclinations were driven away by the sight of the torn little bit of paper on the nightstand. 'Call Helen', it seemed to scream at him, and he was thrown back into bitter reality. But he ignored the screams and instead took his trusty phone book, lying down with it on the bed, and looked up the name written in barely legible handwriting. That was something else he'd always teased her about - she was a lefty. God, he'd come up with lists of jokes about that, blamed all her minor accidents on it. But she'd never minded. Just laughed, maybe slapped his arm. He wanted these memories to stop, they were hurting him. Because he couldn't have them any more without wanting her so badly that he could cry. And if he started to cry, he was afraid he wouldn't be able to stop. So instead, he frowned hard at the name and flicked through the book until he reached the correct alphabetic place. But it wasn't there. A name like that, it was unique, but there was no such thing listed. With frustration and despair, Doug threw the book to the floor and punched his fist into the bed's mattress. He'd have to call Helen to find out if maybe it was the name of a relative or friend. And she wasn't going to listen to him. It just meant he'd have to keep calling until she listened. He groaned a little and rubbed his forehead, pushing his hair back so it stood up in irregular peaks and spikes. Sighing, he picked up the telephone and dragged it to the bed and plugged in the number.   
"Hello?" She answered very quickly.  
"Hi, Mrs. Hathaway. Please don't hang-"  
"Not you again. I told you, I don't want to speak to you."  
"I know, I know, but I really need to know one thing."  
"No, Doug Ross, I am not listening to you."  
There, she hung up. 'This could be a long morning,' he thought to himself as he hit redial.  
"Helen, do you know who Rudy Blenvor…uhm, Blenvorchek is?" He stumbled a little over the pronunciation.   
"You speak terrible Russian."  
She slammed down the phone again and Doug winced, holding the phone slightly away from his ear. He pressed redial once again.  
"I am going to call the police if you do not stop calling me!"  
"Please, Helen, please. Do you know the name? Just tell me and I promise I won't call you again."  
There was a silence.  
"What name?"  
"Rudy Blenvorchek"  
"No. I know no-one by that name."  
"You're sur-"  
Down went the phone once more, and he cursed out loud. Still, he'd got an answer. She didn't know the name. Who was it then? Someone she'd been dating? It made him angry considering that as an option. Sure, it was hypocritical, but for Carol to be fooling around...well, it seemed wrong. He looked at the paper. There was really only one option left. To call the number. He'd just picked the phone up and was trying to decipher the third number - it could have been a 5 or a 6 - when there was a knock on the door. Kicking a pair of jeans and an empty chip packet under the bed, he went to answer it. He stuck his head round the edge and kept most of his body behind the door as he opened it, and he was surprised to find Haleh Adams on the other side. He opened the door properly, and said "Haleh? Hi!"  
"Doug. I heard you were at County recently..."  
"Yeah, I just dropped in, I was looking for Mark but he's away. Do you want to come in?"  
"Not really, I'm on my way to work. Look, I don't condone what you did, and I especially don't like you for what you did to Carol." She fixed him with a hard stare. "But she told me something and I think I should tell you. She's been gone so long and the police didn't find anything, but just before she went missing I ran into her down by the lake."  
Doug leaned forward, sponging up all the information he could get. "Are you sure you don't want to come in?"  
"I've only got 5 minutes."  
"Sure, that's long enough, c'mon." He stepped aside and gestured her in, then closed the door behind her as she looked at the state of the room.   
"Yeah, I, uhm. I've been out a lot, haven't had much of a chance to be...tidy." He moved quickly in front of her and took a bag off the desk chair so she could sit down. Shuffling around the room, he picked some more things off the floor and put them on the nightstands and the bed, as Haleh watched critically.  
"Don't say anything."  
"I didn't say a word."  
He grinned at her, but her face remained stony. "Do you want to hear what I've got to say, or shall I just go now and leave you to clear up?"  
"No, no. Go on." He sat down, eager to glean information from her.  
"Carol was pregnant."  
Doug didn't move for a minute. He simply raised his eyebrows and pushed his head forward, as if he was hard of hearing.  
"Pregnant?"  
"Yes. With your child."  
"Mine?" The same expression lay over his face like a concrete blanket.  
"She didn't say any more to me about it, just said she was having a baby and you were the father."  
"I..." Doug moved his body weight back so he sat up straight and gazed at her in disbelief. "Where did she go? After you spoke to her?"  
"I don't know. I just saw her on my way home from the store, she looking pale. Told me about the baby and then said she had to go."  
"The baby..." He ran both hands through his hair, stretching his back out at the same time.   
"I really have to go now. I'm going to be late for work." She stood up and walked to the door and opened it herself, leaving Doug sitting by himself, stunned. She closed the door quietly behind her as she went.  
  
_____________  
  
Carol was pregnant. Carol was pregnant. No matter how many times he thought it or said it out loud, he still couldn't quite grasp the reality of it. She had been carrying his child. She must have been pregnant before the court case, so now...now, somewhere, he had a child; they had a child between them. A son or a daughter, out there in the world. He had to find her now, more than ever before, more than he ever thought possible. Now he wasn't just looking for Carol, he was looking for his child too. He couldn't think of anything else that would ever matter again compared to this. The sudden thunderbolt of understanding stuck him down as he fumbled across the bed, throwing tidied items to the floor and finally locating what he knew he recognised all along. The photograph - it was an ultrasound image, with the fuzzy outline of a tiny foetus cut out from the main picture. It was his baby. He traced the outline, marking the head, the arms and the legs of the half-developed infant. What had she called him or her? Had she run away because she was having the baby? Surely...surely, she wouldn't have had it aborted? She had wanted a child so much. But, it was his and he had ruined her career, her life, and run away from it all leaving no contact routes. He leant back against the wall behind the bed, letting his hands holding the image fall to his lap with despair. If he couldn't find Carol, how would he ever trace the baby? How did anyone ever trace...an idea began to form in his mind, as he remembered a time at the hospital when a lost father had come rushing into the ER looking for his wife who had just given birth. A simple record search had shown that in fact the woman had been taken to Mercy, where she had given birth to a baby boy. Hospital records. That's how he'd find them. All fired up with this new route to success, he was about to pick up the phone and call County when he recalled that no-one else had known Carol was pregnant aside from Haleh. So she couldn't have gone to County - the news would have spread like, well, bacteria. Instead, he picked up the phone and dialled the police number, now a familiar pattern of button presses on the telephone.   
"Chicago PD."  
"Hi, I'm looking for the person dealing with missing people cases?"  
"Putting you through now."  
There was a long buzzing noise and then some elevator music again. Doug gritted his teeth against each other.  
"Hello, Chicago PD, missing persons report desk, how can I help?"  
"I need to speak to someone dealing with a particular case?"  
"What case is that, sir?"  
"Carol Hathaway. She went missing a year ago."  
"And you want to report her missing?"  
"No, no, she's already been reported missing. I want to talk to whoever was investigating it."  
"Uhmmmm, okay...." There was the sound of typing. "Miss Carol Hathaway? That was being looked into by...Sergeant Gregory in 13th precinct. Do you want me to put you through to him?"  
"Yeah, please."  
"Okay, one moment."  
Doug prayed for no more music. There was none, instead a voice saying "Gregory."  
"Sergeant Gregory?"  
"Uh huh." He was obviously eating something. Probably a doughnut.  
"Did you investigate Carol Hathaway? She disappeared last year..."  
"I don't know, I go through about 500 cases a year. Who is this?"  
"I'm Doug Ross. I was...with Carol for a while before she went missing, and I heard that she was pregnant with my child."  
"That's real cute. But I don't remember any Hathaways."  
"You just said yourself you go through 500 cases a year. Can't you look it up?"  
"Sure I can. But why would I want to? I got three more missing person files on my desk right now from today, two unsolved murders and some old guy complaining about noise pollution from his student neighbours."  
"I know you're busy. But If you could just do me a favour-"  
"I don't do favours, buddy. I'm a police officer."  
"Look. Carol Hathaway. She went missing while I was out of the area and now I'm back and I just found out she was pregnant. Is there any way I can somehow find out at least where she had the baby?"  
"Go to the hospitals. Tell 'em you're the father of a baby, have them look up the records."  
"They can't do it - medical confidentiality."  
"So what you want me to do about it?"  
"Can't you call up the hospitals...?"  
There was the sound of raucous fake laughter on the other end of the line. Doug sighed - he knew he sounded desperate.  
"Look buddy, I wish you all the luck in the world finding your girlfriend and your kid, but I can't help you. Call me if you find her, then I can get rid of that report." And he hung up.  
  
By midday, Doug was beginning to wonder if the phone receiver had welded itself to his head. It felt like his ear had been glued to it all morning - which, for the most part, it had - and as he listened to the voice on the other end, he gazed out of the window at the sun and felt the need to escape the confines of his room.  
"Okay. Yup, sure. Thanks. I'll talk to you later. Thanks a lot."   
Finally, he put the phone down. Standing up, he pushed the tips of his fingers up into the air, as far away from his feet as possible, and yawned. Time to get out. Grabbing his coat from the desk and putting the room key in his pocket, he left the hotel. As he strode down the street, his gaze firmly fixed on the sidewalk before him, he tried to let the breeze clear his mind. But all it could do was remind him that he should be back in that room again in less than 30 minutes if possible, just in case. Just in case Kerry came through. He felt the damp splatter of a raindrop hit the back of his neck, and tried to avoid looking at the pushchair that passed him, pushed by a couple of doting grandparents. If Kerry could just find out...he was surprised that she was willing to help him, after everything. But the ring of sadness in her voice suggested that maybe she too was confused by Carol's disappearance.   
  
Standing up, he pushed the tips of his fingers up into the air, as far away from his feet as possible, and yawned. Time to get out. Grabbing his coat from the desk and putting the room key in his pocket, he left the hotel. As he strode down the street, his gaze firmly fixed on the sidewalk before him, he tried to let the breeze clear his mind. But all it could do was remind him that he should be back in that room again in less than 30 minutes if possible, just in case. Just in case Kerry came through. He felt the damp splatter of a raindrop hit the back of his neck, and tried to avoid looking at the stroller that passed him, pushed by a couple of doting grandparents. If Kerry could just find out...he was surprised that she was willing to help him, after everything. But the ring of sadness in her voice suggested that maybe she too was confused by Carol's disappearance. He couldn't understand why no one had done anything about it - but he reasoned that someone had gone to the police, and working at the hospital didn't leave a lot of time for private investigations. The rain was starting to fall harder, but Doug was unaware as he sat down on a park bench, his hands still buried deep in the pockets of his overcoat. He forced himself to stay there, instead of rushing back to the hotel to see if the phone had rung. He knew he had to give it at least half an hour, and if he hadn't come out he would have gone crazy. But now it felt like it was even worse outside. The freedom you normally expect, the escapism had backfired because now it felt not just like the walls of the hotel room were closing in on him, but the city too. The city had swallowed Carol, left her untraceable, left him trapped in the middle and almost suddenly claustrophobic despite the rain, wind and clear view of grass and trees all around. Had she felt that way? Had she simply left for another part of the country? Surely not, she would have mentioned it to someone. Her mother. Mark. Haleh, even, who, for all intents and purposes, had been the last person to see Carol. A cold gust of wind slapped water in his face, and he stood up, unable to take the waiting any longer. He walked slowly in the direction of his hotel, rain dripping from his hair onto his face, running down the skin like tears, falling from his jaw to his coat collar, or running down his neck making a bumpy path over the ruined flesh on the left.  
  
He was standing outside his door, digging the key out of his pocket when the phone started ringing inside. With some urgency, Doug rammed the key into the lock and turned it, cursing the complicated system as he lifted the handle up once, turned the key again and finally crashed through the door in a forward perpetual motion, stretched to his full extent as he reached for the receiver.  
"Hello?" The rest of his body caught up with the front half of him and came to a halt by the desk.  
"A call for you from Dr. Weaver, Mr. Ross."  
"Okay." He folded down onto the chair, one hand spread flat on the surface of the desk where he had originally placed it to stop himself running through the cheap furniture.   
"Doug?"  
"Hi, Kerry." He didn't want to ask anything directly for fear of the answer.  
"I searched the medical database for the whole of Cook County, but they only let me read the files from public hospitals."  
"Uh huh..."  
"But I did find a record - from Sinai. It's dated November 12th."  
"Uh huh." He wished that she'd stop pausing, the suspense was not something he needed or wanted.  
"A Miss Carol Hathaway was admitted to the ER in labour, brought in by paramedics, then sent to OB, where she gave birth to twin girls."  
There was a long and heavy silence that echoed down the telephone line.  
"Doug?"  
"Yeah."  
"They were both born healthy, they weighed about 6 and a half pounds each. It says they were named Kate and Tess."  
"Kate and Tess."  
"Are you okay, Doug?"  
"Yeah. Yeah, Kerry. Thanks for finding that out for me."  
Another short pause followed.  
"There wasn't any information about her address or where she went afterwards."  
"Okay."  
There was some shouting in the background.  
"I have to go, Doug."  
"Thanks again, Kerry. I really do appreciate that."  
"That's okay." There was more shouting and Doug could hear Kerry shouting back loudly before putting the phone down. He slowly replaced his own phone in the cradle and tipped his head into his open hands. Twin girls, twin daughters. Tess and Kate. Such beautiful names...such Carol names. She would have had no trouble choosing them, she would have known all along what she wanted to call her children. Their children. He tried to imagine what they would look like, what Carol's face would have looked like when she saw her girls for the first time. He ached thinking about it, and he rubbed his head backwards and forwards over the palms of his hands that contained it. He wanted to be there. He wished he'd been there. And now, if he could only find his family, he would never let them go again. They would never be let out of his sight. They could move somewhere new, out of Chicago. Somewhere where there were fields and grass and sun, and a beach nearby, where they could live in a house with three bedrooms, a room they could turn into a playroom, a den just like they used to have, and a swimming pool - he could teach the girls to swim when they got older, right in their backyard. They could ride their bikes across the fields without worrying about gangs and traffic, and they could spend days on the beach building sandcastles and eating picnics...the only thing standing between the hotel room and that vision was finding Carol and his daughters. That was all.  
  
Doug left his room once more an hour later, dimly aware that he should eat at some point, but more focused on his mission than his stomach. In the brief space of time he'd had to get used to the fact he had two baby girls somewhere, he had been overcome with the desire to let Helen know. He wasn't sure why - maybe it was a combination of his family ideals and the fact that he didn't want her to think he had Carol hidden away somewhere himself. Maybe he just needed someone to share the news. He tried calling her, but the answerphone picked up, he presumed because she didn't want any calls from him again. This time though, this time he knew that he could get her to listen. He wouldn't let her shut the door in his face. The five words - "Help me find your grandchildren" - he knew would stop her in her tracks. And he was prepared to force her to listen to him say those words by almost any means. Determined and strong, fuelled by the need to be a father to his children, he strode down the sidewalk to the Hathaway household. The world around him was dull and grey, but the rain had stopped and he marched onward with such a determined look on his face that people moved out of his path before he could get too near them.  
  
But when he got there, the door was already open. The front yard was empty, and there was no one on the porch. No one to the sides of the house either, and it didn't look like the neighbours were in. Doug frowned and went up the porch steps slowly, listening to the creak of the boards beneath his feet. The noise brought a small black and white figure to the door, and out of it. The cat wound itself around Doug's legs, meowing loudly, stopping briefly to sniff the air. Seeing a leaf dancing on the grass in the yard, it leapt off the porch. Doug scratched the back of his head and craned his head forward towards the door. Unsure about what was polite to do in such circumstances, he rang the doorbell once before calling out, "Helen? Mrs. Hathaway?" Only an echo of silence greeted him in response. Helen Hathaway wasn't the kind of person to leave the front door open for visitors to drop by, or while she filled a pail with water for her plants. Calling out again, Doug pushed the door back a little so it opened wide enough for him to slide in and take a look around. There was still no reply, but he couldn't help thinking that if she came in now, he would most definitely be spending the night in a police cell. As he looked around at the immaculately kept house, he knew there was something not quite right about it. Everything seemed to be in its place as far as he could remember, in fact there didn't seem to be a hair out of place. Maybe it had been redecorated, he mused, but he still felt unsettled. And, as he turned into the kitchen he knew why. Feeling a surge of adrenaline, he dropped to his knees and felt the parchment dry skin, looked at the blown pupils and the dried mess of grey pulp and deep red blood on the white, white tiles. He caught himself about to give CPR, but read the signs of rigor mortis and the grey matter, and knew it was not worth the breath. She was dead, shot once in the temple, executioner style. No bloody footprints, no gun, no trail of anyone being here except the flapping door. He ran a hand over the face of the woman he'd considered a mother-in-law, closing her eyelids over the dry eyeballs beneath. His eyes ran to the crucifix she wore around her neck, lying at the very base of her neck, and he touched it once, briefly and almost automatically, crossing himself out of respect as he had been taught to so many years ago. As he stood up, his eyes still on the murdered Helen Hathaway, a sudden blur of thoughts ran through his mind. He had to call 911, he couldn't leave the scene, he'd left his fingerprints on the body, what if the murderer was still here, why had someone killed her, if they had killed Helen had they killed Carol, had his daughters been killed, maybe the police would start to really investigate this, why, why, why? He looked down at his hands, not a drop of blood on them. He stretched forward, leaning over the body on the floor and punched 911 into the phone on the wall. Pulling the cord out to his side of the room, he held onto it tight as he waited to be connected, and crouched back down on the floor by Helen as he let reality sink in.  
____________________________________________________________________  
  
Doug didn't return to his hotel room until gone midnight. It was beginning to smell, he thought, as he gladly headed for a hot shower before falling into bed. After he'd called 911, two cops had turned up and taken him to the police station where he'd remained all day and most of the night, being questioned by a series of different officers. As he sat in the small interview room and tried to fend of the barrage of questions and suspicious looks, he knew that what he said sounded circumstantial, and even slightly incriminating. Helen had always had a dislike for him, but he'd been calling on her a lot recently despite her asking him several times to go away. He was what they might consider a 'disgruntled boyfriend'; angry that Helen's daughter had run off carrying his children. He was living in a hotel and had a nasty looking scar across his neck. In all honesty, he would be the easiest person to lock up for the murder - hell, he even had a previous conviction for reckless homicide. So why were they holding back? It wasn't like he'd had a particularly easy detective rolling harmless questions at him, but it could have been much worse. He was certain there was a room full of people behind the large mirror on the far wall, all looking at him for signs of a guilty killer and discussing the evidence. He had all but given up when a police officer and two detectives entered the room. The officer, a slim guy whose shirt was a size too big, positioned himself by the door casually, and the two senior officers came right up to the table at which Doug was sitting. Unable to bear the weight of their stares, he said, "I didn't do it," a statement of childlike truth, a sad and lonely echo in the quiet room. Knowing the looks that were being passed from cop to cop, he let his eyes wander to his hands on his lap instead.  
"That's okay, Mr. Ross. You're free to go."  
Doug blinked. "Uhh...what?"  
"We've uncovered some additional evidence which gets you off the hook."  
"What evidence?"  
"We're not at liberty to tell you that. You're free to leave." They hustled him out of the room, failing to answer his questions. He'd told them explicitly why he'd been to see Helen, the fact that Carol was missing, and she had his children. But they hadn't been interested in his 'personal problems' - a phrase that seemed quite popular - and had ignored any pleas for information or help to find her. He couldn't make them understand that this wasn't just any old domestic case, that she really was missing and he wasn't just an abusive boyfriend. It was infuriating, and now after all his time there, they were throwing him out. He stood on the steps of the police station in the dark, where he had been left. It was raining again and he'd left his jacket behind. In fact, he hadn't left it, it had been taken for evidence early on in proceedings as it had blood on it. Doug stuffed his hands into the pockets of the slacks he wore, burying them as deep as they would go, and looked out into the street. His mind drifted as his eyes followed the cars and lights that flowed past. Why would anyone want to kill Helen? That was the craziest thing of all. There was no reason for it. And yet, there had to be, because such an execution was so professional but nothing had been stolen, there was nothing that anyone would have wanted from Helen Hathaway. A cop with a handcuffed teen by his side brushed past and Doug moved to one side. He couldn't avoid the thought any longer, that it had to be something to do with Carol. It couldn't just be circumstantial that one woman goes missing uncharacteristically, without a trace, and then her innocent mother gets murdered. The more he thought about it, the more it made sense, and the more he knew that if he found the killer, he'd find Carol. Slowly descending the steps, he walked off slowly in the direction of the hotel, eyes on the ground.  
  
He awoke late the next morning with the thought of money in his head. He couldn't afford to stay here any longer. He couldn't really afford it when he'd originally taken the room, but now he'd stayed for an unexpected amount of time, and he knew he'd have to move to somewhere cheaper, at least for now. Unsurely, he felt around for his wallet and assessed his financial situation. He had no more than $15 in cash, and he was almost certain that his bank balance wouldn't stand up well to more than 2 or 3 nights in a hotel, wherever he stayed. He got out of bed slowly, his t-shirt crumpled, and padded to the desk, rubbing his lower back with one hand. Reaching out, he brushed the collection of keys from the desk top into his palm, and flipped around the ring until his fingers settled over an old key, smooth at the edges and a dark chrome colour. He wasn't sure if he could do it, and he wasn't sure if he should do it, but he didn't have much choice.   
  
Packing didn't take long, and he was checked out by noon. But just as he was standing on the threshold, teetering on the brink of the future, the hotel receptionist called him back to a telephone that she held out.  
"There's a call for you, sir."  
"Thanks." Doug reached over the desk and took the receiver, the wire stretching out across the bookings diary and around a small pot plant.  
"Hello?"  
"Dr. Ross?"  
"Yeah..." The name he was so used to being called rolled off the tongue of the caller, and Doug almost didn't notice until after he'd answered.  
"I need to meet with you."  
"Who is this?" He couldn't place the voice at all, and there was a slight twinge of an accent from somewhere. Somewhere other than Chicago.  
"I cannot say. I must talk to you soon. When can we meet?"  
Confused and suspicious, Doug stayed silent trying to think what action he should take.  
"It is about Miss. Hathaway."  
Something in Doug's eyes jumped, but he remained still.  
"I can meet you in an hour."  
"Yes. That is good. Someplace busy."  
"Uhh..."  
"I meet you at Doc Magoo's by where you and Nurse Hathaway used to work."  
Doug flinched slightly, a muscle in his jaw flexing. How did this person know that?  
"Okay. And you'll be wearing a big red rose, right?" He couldn't resist the joke - it felt like something out of a James Bond movie.  
"No. I be wearing a Cubs jacket and a cap. See you there." The dial tone rang in Doug's ear. He passed the phone back to the receptionist.  
"Do you have a number that I can forward any other calls to, Mr. Ross?"  
"Uhm. Sure. Hang on..." He searched for a pen and paper, which the receptionist passed to him and he scribbled a number down for her before leaving the hotel altogether, now a certain purpose to his stride. How the hell had that guy known his name, about where he used to work, and what did he know about Carol? Why did they have to meet like something out of an episode of Mission: Impossible? He walked quickly, a slight frown crossing his features and the watch on his wrist slowly ticking away the time. He wasn't entirely comfortable with the choice of rendezvous; he had been trying to steer clear of County as much as he could after that initial visit. It brought back too many memories, too much bitterness and too many 'what ifs'. What if he'd stayed? What if he hadn't helped Ricky die? What if he'd never even met Ricky? Going back there made him hate himself more than he already did. Doc Magoo's was too close for comfort, despite the good times that had happened there. Unwilling to look at even the doors of the ER, Doug jogged up the steps of the diner and stopped just inside the doorway to look for anyone in a Cubs jacket, and to look at his watch. He was half an hour early, and he couldn't see the dark blue colour of a baseball jacket anywhere. In fact he couldn't see anything, because someone had just walked into him.  
"Uhng." He grunted, feeling an arm crunching into the old wound on his stomach.  
"Sorry, sorry. Are you...hey! Dr. Ross! I mean, Doug. I'm so sorry, I didn't see you there, and I've got a presentation in- "John Carter glanced at his own watch "-argh, three minutes."  
"Hi, Carter. Go on, don't mind me." The fleeing form dashed out with his cup of coffee, stopping once to let a car pass before jogging towards the hospital doors, his white coat flapping behind him. 'Some things never change', Doug thought to himself and slid into a booth. He folded his hands into a pile on the table in front of him and declined coffee from the waitress. Glancing at the grease smeared wall clock, he noticed despairingly that he still had 27 minutes to wait, and turned his gaze out through the window instead. For a stunning moment, he thought he saw her. The dark hair, resting in perfectly formed curls upon her shoulders, the brown leather bag, a white shirt. But the tall man by her side wasn't him, and as she turned to laugh up in the stranger's face, he realised it wasn't her. Doug turned away, glanced at the clock once more and stared hard at his own hands.   
  
The hands of the clock had reached 12.58 when, out of the corner of his eye, Doug caught a fragment of light reflecting off a satin team coat. The short, dark figure wore a cheap red baseball hat that failed to keep several oily strands of hair under control. He stood by the door and Doug watching his eyes roving the diner until they settled on him.   
"Dr. Ross?"  
"Yeah."  
The man slid into the seat opposite Doug and waved away the waitress frantically. If he was trying to seem un-noticeable, then he was failing miserably. Doug looked him in the eye and waited for him to say something.  
"My name is Rudy. I know you are looking for Miss Hathaway and I know her mother was killed."  
Doug blinked and leant forward a little. "How do you know?"  
"I just do. I am...it is hard to say, I not think of the phrase but I am like in the middle of a difficult place and a rock - you know?"  
Doug shook his head. The man, Rudy, sighed and looked out of the window before turning back to Doug.  
"I am in trouble with bad men, but I cannot go to the police. I can't tell you a lot. But Miss Hathaway was a good person and I think she was finding out things that could have got her into trouble. Trouble like I am in now. I am scared for her, Dr. Ross."  
Doug failed to find words for a number of seconds.  
"What sort of trouble?"  
"I cannot tell you too much, I am in so much danger already. If I tell you information, then they might want to kill you too."  
"Kill me?" Doug whispered, leaning almost flat on the table, looking straight at the strange man who sat before him. "Why?"  
"I cannot say. This is something very big, Dr. Ross. I think you have come off the normal path."  
"Tell me. I want to find her. I want to help her. She gave birth to my children about 6 months ago, Rudy. I need to know where to find them."  
"Children?" He mumbled something else, something very similar to words that had been thrown at Doug by Helen before she died. His hands ran over his face, and a bead of sweat ran in a trickle down from a sideburn on the left side of his face. Then, in a sudden, quick movement, he leant forward, grabbed Doug's sweater so that they sat with their foreheads almost touching. He spoke in a fast, panicky whisper.  
"Miss Hathaway's father did not die naturally, and he did not die innocently. He was not even called Hathaway, he was called Debrevski and he was one of an elite army spying force from the KGB that infiltrated the American government in the 1960's. He was killed by the American government when they found out his real name and purpose. Helen Hathaway knew. That is why they killed her. And I am afraid that Carol found out to. They will kill her if she knows. I tell you no more. I won't see you again. Run quietly, Dr. Ross. They'll know if you are too loud with your information."  
And before Doug could react, he was gone.  
  
  
He wandered the streets of Chicago late into the night, weaving between the skyscrapers and plush office blocks of the downtown area. He listened to sirens and shouting, and he watched the bright lights of nightclubs and bars flash over the faces of laughing, smiling people. He watched the moon's reflection on the surface of the lake, standing on a bridge above it. He walked further and let the noise fade into the distance, the buildings becoming smaller and lower. The night got darker, the moon fell behind a cloud and the wind swept a path around the lonely figure that wore the sidewalk down with each step. Not until the pale fingers of the cloudy sunrise reached over the horizon did he stop and sit down on the thin planks of wood that made up a series of steps by the front door. He blew into his balled up hands then let them hold up his head to see the light fracture through the bridge. He wanted the light to pierce him and melt the icy feeling inside. He wanted soft hands to soothe the pain. But first he needed to know, and he had to wait for the morning to begin before he could continue with his search.  
  
Doug had never imagined himself in a library out of choice. In fact, he had sworn that he'd never put a foot into another library when he qualified as a doctor. But then he had never imagined himself searching for the kind of information he was looking for now. Desperately hanging onto the fragments of the story from the nervous Russian, Doug had searched telephone directories going back as far as the resources would allow for anyone by the name of Debrevski. He had looked up public records of births and deaths, stopped briefly when he found one that recorded the birth of Carol Hathaway - he focused on the parent's names, but they were both Hathaway too. He looked at county records, housing plans and deeds, immigrant details. There was nothing there. He searched the public catalogue of books, out of sheer desperation, looking for any reference to KGB activity, Cold War history and Russian movement within the state and city. And finally, he sat at the computerised search screen, one elbow leaning on a pile of military history books and history documents, and followed a link to a newspaper search.   
"Would you like to use the microfiche, sir?"  
Doug jolted. Since yesterday afternoon, he hadn't felt too comfortable about people sneaking up on him.  
"Uh, microfiche?"  
"You can look at newspaper articles right back to their first issue on the microfiche. I'm afraid we haven't quite got the electronic system working properly yet and there's only an archive of the last 2 months on there."  
"Oh. Okay. Thanks. Uh, where...?"  
"Let me show you. It's really quite simple." The librarian was obviously in a chatty mood and hadn't noticed the dark rings below Doug's eyes that signified his lack of sleep. He followed behind her and warily kept one eye on the bookshelves, looking for anyone who looked...official. G-men types.   
"-and the older ones are stored towards the back. Would you like me show you how to use the system?"  
Doug nodded mutely and watched her turn the black dial on one side of the giant screen as newspaper scans whizzed past at nauseating speed. He jabbed three fingers into one eye socket and rubbed at the ache just behind his eyeball.   
"Thanks. You say the newer one are at the front of this box?"  
"Yes."  
"Okay." He fumbled with the box and pulled out a random disc from somewhere near the front end. Uncoordinated, he tried to push it into the appropriate slot on the front of the machine, but his large hands got in the way and the librarian leant over him and pushed it in gently instead. Her face taking on a more rosy hue, she asked if there was anything else she could do. Beyond the point of caring about anything else but his singular mission, Doug didn't notice the casual flirting attempt, politely thanked her and started scrolling through the thousands of clippings. It didn't take long until he was ready to burn the ancient system to the ground. He wasn't entirely sure what he was looking for, which was a bad start, and he had to jump from one page to the next, scanning each one individually for anything that seemed relevant. It didn't help his mood that he found a short item reporting on his own trial last year, and he ripped that disc out of the machine, replacing it with the next one before he could think about it too much. Five more minutes and he was about to give up completely when his eyes flashed over a tiny column of writing on a page dated April 23rd.  
"Early yesterday morning, an unidentified female body was found lying in the road in the Eastern quarter. The police have issued a statement asking for witnesses to a possible hit and run incident in the area. If you were in the Eastern quarter on Thursday night, and have any important information, please contact Chicago PD on 888-1210."  
He would have carried on, ignoring this seemingly routine plea for witnesses, but it had hit a nerve. The Eastern quarter was where the vast majority of the Ukrainian and Russian population of Chicago lived. The fear rushed through him in a blast of chilled air and his head throbbed, and he left his seat with a stony face, leaving the pile of books on the table.  
  
"Doug? What happened?"   
The concern written on Kerry's face was not a look he was used to, least of all from her. But he never saw that, because his single-minded nature had overcome him and he was blinded by it.  
"Kerry, I need Lydia. Is she here? Is Al around?"  
"Why do you need Lydia? Come in here, sit down. Doug. You don't look well, I want to take a look at you. Have you been sleeping?"  
"I'm fine, Kerry, just get me Al. I need him to find something out for me. I can't call the police, they won't listen." Anger ran sparks in his eyes.  
"Okay. Okay. We'll find him. Yosh? Have you seen Lydia? Can you tell her I need a quick word?"  
Wide-eyed, Yosh nodded, eyes flicking between Kerry and Doug before he scurried in the direction of the exam rooms. They stood facing each other, Doug breathing hard and his muscles jumping, constantly on edge, Kerry leaning imperceptivity on her crutch and stretching one arm out as if to touch Doug's arm but not quite making contact. The tension in the air snapped as Doug folded in half, resting his arms on his knees as he bent over before straightening up again. Cutting smoothly across the silence, Kerry asked, "Are you going to tell me what's going on?" Doug sighed, a tinge of anger still resonant in his voice.  
"I can't tell you Kerry. It's so crazy, I don't think you'd believe me anyway, but I really can't tell you, or anyone else. All I know is that Carol's in trouble, if she's not already gone." He met her eyes for the first time as he said it, but the shared moment lasted seconds as Lydia appeared by them, surprised to see Doug when she was expecting a reprimand.   
"Lydia...could you come into the lounge for a moment wit us? Doug needs to ask you something."  
More confused than ever, she replied, "Sure," and followed them into the staff locker room, shrugging her shoulders at Malik who watched from behind the admit area.  
  
In the lounge, Kerry sat down at the table, leaning forward so she sat on only the edge of the wooden seat. Doug stayed standing, unsure what to do with himself, and Lydia stood by the door looking suspicious.  
"Have I done something...?"  
"No, no. This is a personal matter. Doug?"  
Lydia's eyes travelled to Doug, who was looking at the floor.  
"Lydia, I need you to call Al for me. I've...I'm trying to find out about what happened to Carol. And I need to know...I need him to look something u for me. I've already tried calling them and they won't listen to me."  
Her eyebrows raised, Lydia said, "Sure. Okay. You want me to call him now? To get him here?" She seemed eager to help, although still confused.   
"Uh, no, don't get him down here. Uhm, here." He handed her a piece of paper, a date and some notes scrawled on it. "Could you ask him if he could find any information about this?"  
Lydia nodded, looking at the paper before she looked back up at Doug. She read it again.  
"You think this is Carol?" Her face registered disbelief.  
Doug shook his head from side to side but said, "I don't know...I really...that's why I need you to do this for me."   
"Okay. I'll go call him now." She reached for the door handle.  
"Ah, Lydia, you can use the phone in here if you want, I can make sure no one else comes in."  
She nodded and swapped places with Kerry, dialling familiar numbers into the phone on the tale. Doug leant back against the lockers, his head tipped to the ceiling and folded his arms across his chest tightly. Lydia read out the bits of information on the paper Doug had given her. She didn't say much else, the tension in the room preventing her, and she hung up quickly after listening closely to the voice on the other end.  
"He's going to get back to me about it." She said it matter-of-factly, and Doug squeezed his arms tighter, his jaw clenching and unclenching.   
"Thanks. Any idea how long?"  
"Couple of minutes, half hour. Who knows?" She shrugged, not wanting to seem blasé.  
Doug nodded and pushed his weight forward so he wasn't leaning on the lockers. He began to pace the room, his arms still folded, his eyes on the floor.  
"Coffee?"  
"Uh. Yeah."  
Lydia poured two mugs and handed Doug one, watching him pacing closely. She took a seat at the table, and realising there would be little conversation, she flicked open a page of the medical journal lying on the surface. Meanwhile, Doug's head was pounding, not from a headache but from the blood he could feel pulsing in his veins, rushing to his head with every beat of his heart. The anger and frustration drove it there harder and harder, and he was afraid if the phone didn't ring soon his head would explode. The mantra that pulsed in time with the blood, "It's not her, it's not her, it's not her', kept a steady beat in his mind, and his footsteps seemed loud and echoing even such a tiny room. He drank the coffee quickly, not tasting it as it rushed down his throat, and took to staring at the phone as he paced. Lydia watched him, her head bowed as if she was reading, but her eyes following him back and forth, back and forth. Studying him, she saw the scar, the weight under his eyes, the muscles tensed from his legs to his jaw. What had happened? This wasn't the same person anymore. Why would Carol be dead, and why wouldn't Doug know? Why wouldn't anyone know? She drank some more of her own coffee and flicked her eyes back over the article in front of her.  
The phone rang so suddenly and loudly in the heavy air that Doug nearly threw his neck out of joint, his head snapped up so quick. Lydia jumped slightly in her seat and reached for the phone, catching Doug's eye. The one glace betrayed all the panic, fear, hope and anger in his soul, and afraid of the answer she might have to give him, she looked away as she answered.  
"Hello?"  
Doug watched her features now. She said little and nodded once before stretching her arm out to Doug, holding the receiver in the outstretched hand.  
"He wants to talk to you."  
He still said nothing, but took the phone.  
"Al?" His voice had a rough edge, like a serrated blade.  
"Doug. I've got the file, and it wasn't easy."  
"Yeah, thanks."  
"It doesn't have much in it, but there are some crime scene photos of the body. I'm going to bring them down to the ER for you."  
"Really? Okay, thanks Al."  
"No problem. I miss Nurse Hathaway myself, I sure hope it isn't her."  
"Me too." Doug hung up the phone and rubbed his eyes, exhaling loudly.   
"Well?"  
"Doug?" Kerry's head popped around the door. "I heard the phone ring..."  
"Al's bringing some crime scene photos down."  
"Oh."  
"Yeah."  
There was a pregnant pause, the air in the lounge seeming stagnant and dense as Doug balled his fists, clenching and unclenching them.  
"Are you okay to stay in here? We have no free exam rooms right now, there was a multiple pile-up on the Expressway."  
"Sure. Actually, I'm going to go outside for some air, thanks Kerry."  
"Okay."  
  
He stood on the step in the ambulance bay for a while, looking at the clear sky and the breath that left his lips and formed a cloud of condensation that hung in the air in front of him, as if in anticipation. The cold breeze blew through the thin sweater he wore and he shifted his weight from foot to foot, arms folded around his chest still. An ambulance roared up, sirens blaring and he moved out of the way, sitting down on the steps of a fire escape. He watched the ambulance doors crash open and everyone scurrying to help. Why did no one take the woman to a hospital? Why didn't they know anything about her? How was it that someone could die in the street and no one cared? He dropped his head into his hands for a moment, then pushed them back over the top of his head through the thin layer of hair. He cared. He really did. But he hadn't been here. And he knew he could never ever forgive himself for that, whatever the outcome. He couldn't get over how one simple action of pity towards a child had resulted in this. Him, sitting on a cold step, waiting to hear if Carol was dead, possibly killed by some sort of Men In Black contract murderer. Of course, the discovery of Carol's family history wasn't something he could blame himself for, but he couldn't console himself when he knew that she may have never been thrown into the knowledge if he had stood up to his actions instead of running away. He tried to throw a cover over the thoughts and instead focus on the moment, but he watched the paramedics tidy their rig and all he could see was Carol. He could see her running to help with a trauma, or wiping away the tears of a kid who'd grazed his knee. He saw her laughing at a joke, and crying in church, and singing along to a CD at home. And he saw her on a gurney, dark curls pressed to the sheet and still as death itself. The vision came to him so furiously and with such force that he clamped his eyelids down as hard as he could to stop the tears from forming. And it was then that he heard another wailing siren and opened his eyes to an old police car, pulled to a halt by the trash cans on the opposite side of the bay. Feeling the pump of adrenaline again, Doug shot to his feet and jogged over to Al, who was unfolding from behind the steering wheel, holding a tan cardboard file.   
  
  
They were in the staff lounge in seconds, Al understanding the urgency but rubbing his lower back, which was complaining about all the fast movement. Doug had banged the door open and startled Carter and a new doctor, but he hadn't noticed. He sat down at the table and took the proffered file from Al's hand. It was only then that he slowed down, and every movement, every lift of a hand seemed like an effort. He felt weighed down, limbs heavy to move as the cardboard case lay on the table in front of him, between his hands. He brushed dirt from the cover, and laid his palms face down either side of it. He stared at it for a short while, feeling the burning of eyes on him. He glanced up at Al once, quickly, before he flipped the cover and exposed the photographs. On the other side of the room, Carter stood by the open door, watching Doug's face. The second door opened and Kerry stuck her head in, nodding hello to Al. Lydia was visible behind him, her arms folded as she tried to see into the room. Al kept his gaze on Doug, and after a few moments, asked gruffly, "Is it her?" Doug's hands, placed either side of the folder once again, stayed as still as the rest of his body as his eyes bored holes through the images in front of him. He said nothing but picked up the first photo and turned it face down as if starting a game of gin rummy. He followed the same pattern, gazing slowly and methodically over each photo, his eyes roaming them, memorising them. He reached the last picture and turned it face down on top of the pile, sitting back in the seat as he flipped the pile over once again, placed it back into the file and closed the cover.   
"Doug?" Kerry was quiet, concerned.  
Doug got to his feet, indiscernible feelings rippling across his features as he marched across the room.  
"It's her."   
And the doors of the ER flapped behind him angrily as he banged out through them.  
  
The area was far from the image in his mind that he'd prayed would be a reality. The streets were dark. The buildings were dark and tall, those that were inhabited, if that's what you'd call it, were damp and echoed with lost voices. Those that weren't inhabited emanated the smell of fear through the cracks in walls and around the edges of the boards that were tacked over the windows. Billposters littered the boards, advertising new movies in a district that had no cinema, nightclubs in an area that provided all its own late night attractions. Whiskey bottles in brown paper bags littered the streets, and although humanity was not unseen it felt like a ghost town, struck by some late-nineties depression specific to these five blocks.  
  
He stood on the spot, the tarmac that was potholed and due for resurfacing and bordered by a kerbstone loose in its place, which long before had been marked with chalk. He crouched down and rubbed the place on the road where he could have sworn he'd seen flecks of white dust, and a tinge of deep red. But it was just the lights of the nearby bar - the neon sign flashing "Budweiser" inanely to no one in particular and reflecting off the wet street. The heavy Chicago rain that had soaked the area that morning and had continued to pound off the concrete wilderness all day and into the night, now beat down hard on Doug's back, shoulders and head as he stood up and tipped his head back. Looking up into the sky, he let the hard water smack on his closed eyelids and wash away the image of the seedy bar, the trash lying on the sidewalk, the black Mercedes. He hoped that the cold wind would blow away the sounds of screeching brakes in the distance, and the whispers of silence that haunted the region in his mind that would withhold the fear and sorrow for the remainder of his life.  
  
Doug sat on the couch late that night. His look was unfocussed and the shadows of hurt, rejection, pain, history, honour, despair and surrender were all visible through his eyes. The clock on the wall ticked 3am but he didn't move. He hadn't moved for hours. He let the house talk to him, the walls exuding fun, laughter and smiles. Memories that were priceless and so sharp that every nerve in his body was cut to pieces. The window was open, and a light night mist floated in, chilling the dark room, lit only by the occasional fragment of light from the moon. The letterbox flapped and snapped the thin glass plate of silence and thought. Duly collecting the piece of paper from the floor, with little thought as to the mystery of such an early delivery, Doug resumed his position on the couch, filling the same spot as before, warmed from his presence. He ran a finger underneath the closed piece of paper, opening it up so he could see the hand written message inside. Within seconds of reading it, he was on his feet. Into the bag by his feet he threw as much as he could, anything to keep his memories alive. The paper fluttered to the bare floor as he banged the front door closed on the happiest times of his life.  
  
"They know you know. But they do not know about your children. Find them."  
  
THE END  
  
Epilogue  
  
"There is no street with mute stones and no house without echoes." Gongora  
  
The rain continued to pound off that spot in the road. Hit by a black government issue automobile, Carol had bounced off the front and crumpled to the floor as the big car crushed her with its left wheels, the driver only making a face when he considered the suspension. The car disappeared almost instantly into the torrential rain, steam hissing off the roof and blood pooling in the potholes of the road. Inside the nearest building, a child's cry ripped through the air. The ruined body lay like litter in the street, distorted and twisted. The thin fingers jumped as the muscles contorted, once, twice before all movement ceased. Her last view was one of the cold night rain rushing towards her, tainted by blood red smears and the sound of screeching tyres. And the sound, and the view, and the rain continued, unforgiving, as he looked for her face on every street.   
  
  
  
  
On Every Street by Dire Straits  
  
There's gotta be a record of you someplace  
You gotta be on somebody's books  
The low down picture of your face  
Your injured looks, the sacred and profane  
The pleasure and the pain  
Somewhere your fingerprints remain concrete  
And it's your face I'm looking for  
On every street  
  
A lady-killer, regulation tattoo  
Silver spurs on his heels  
Says, "What can I tell you, 'cause I'm standing next to you.  
She threw herself under my wheels"  
It's a dangerous road, and a hazardous load  
And the fireworks over Liberty explode in the heat  
And it's your face I'm looking for  
On every street  
  
Three chord symphony crashes into space  
The moon is hanging upside down  
I don't know why it is I'm still on the case  
It's a ravenous town; you still refuse to be traced  
Seems to me such a waste  
Every victory has a taste that's bittersweet  
And it's you face I'm looking for  
On every street  
Yeah it's your face I'm looking for  
On every street  
  
Private Investigations by Dire Straits  
  
It's a mystery to me, the game commences  
For the usual fee, plus expenses  
Confidential information, it's in a diary  
This is my investigation; it's not a public enquiry  
  
I go checking out the reports, digging up the dirt  
You get to meet allsorts in this line of work  
Treachery and treason, there's always an excuse for it  
And when I find the reason, I still can't get used to it  
  
And what have you got, at the end of the day?  
What have you got to take away?  
A bottle of whiskey, and a new set of lies  
Blinds on the windows and a pain behind the eyes  
  
Scarred for life. No compensation. Private investigation.  
  
  



End file.
